A muscled man stands in the doorway with a face pierced and tatted in so many places, it's hard to spot a streak of peach skin amidst black-green and glinting metal. It covers his bald head and curls around the nape of his pale neck. His gunmetal blue eyes shift between the three of us.

They land on Tave, and his thin lips stretch into what seems like a smile, revealing pierced gums. Of course.

"Octavian, my guy." His voice is gravelly. "What's up, man?"

When he tilts his head, I can see his neck through gaping earlobes. Maybe I would've shared Zain's bewildered expression, if it were the most bizarre thing I've seen—it is not. This fruit basket of a city is full of people of different sizes, colors, and shapes, proudly holding different markings in their own way. While she may have only seen the shiny polished men and women in the Upper East Side, I've seen anything but, and while they make her uncomfortable, they put me at ease—everyone will find their footing here, no matter their form.

"I'm good, Kai. I see you've gotten more work done." Tave laughs good-heartedly.

They clasp hands, patting each other's backs, before the tatted guy—Kai—steps aside to let us in, leading us through a dim, purple-hued narrow hallway. The smoke-scented air makes me wary. Based on what little research I've done before coming here, tattoo parlors are supposed to smell sterile like the cleaning products they use. For a second, I worry that we made a mistake coming here. But Tave seems to know this man well enough, and he wouldn't just take us someplace shady to get tattoos. After all, he's got the money to take us anywhere else.

"Fuck yeah, I did. It's the art of life," Kai says before glancing back at Zain and I. "You chicks here to get su'mm done?"

Zain is still staring at his dangling, stretched earlobes with wide eyes and pale skin. I elbow her. The last thing we need is giving this man weird looks.

"Yes," I reply. "I think I'll get a tattoo."

He quickly looks me over and nods. The hallway opens to an area with artwork all over the walls and a bed with needles and equipment on the side. Ineligible rap music plays in the background.

Before Tave can follow Kai into a separate room, I grab his arm, making sure Zain is not listening. Her curly-haired head is turned away, marveling at the artwork on the walls.

"How much is this going to cost?" I ask, uncomfortable, avoiding his gaze by staring at the door behind him.

When I look back at him, he wears a nonchalant expression on his face and shrugs. "It's all taken care of. He's my brother's best friend. He doesn't charge me."

I shift on my feet. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." He gives me one last wink, squeezes my shoulder, and turns around.

Once Tave and Kai walk into another room, joking and catching up, Zain turns to me. Eyes wide, she exclaims, "What the fuck has Tave gotten us into? It smells like sex and shrooms in here."

I stifle a laugh. "You need to keep your voice down before he hears us and kicks us out."

"Or worse," she mutters, turning to the artwork on the walls, "he'll staple us together and call it the art of life."

Ten minutes later, when Tave comes out of the room with a stud in his nose, a particular black design holds my attention. I stare at it, wondering how much pain it'll inflict when the needles tear across my skin.

"It's a python," the gravelly voice behind me says. "Pretty daring."

I turn to see Kai standing with crossed arms, an eyebrow raised in challenge. Under better lighting, I can see his features better, and if I focus enough, his high cheekbones and lean figure would make him attractive.

My gaze returns to the design, and I'm reminded of the night I took the first step of my plan. It was Atlas's party at one of David's houses. I will turn into the python that takes down the biggest, baddest wolf in the den, I thought then.

"Quiet but dangerous thing," he continues. "They're not poisonous, but still deadly. Those who practice voodoo in Western Africa believe they're a symbol of strength and resilience."

I turn back to him, pleasantly surprised at how his appearance deluded me into thinking he'd be the last to know about symbology or Western African traditions. I should've known better.

But his words stick. Not poisonous but deadly.

"I want this one."

༺༻

An hour and a half later, I sit at the edge of a red booth in a pizzeria, careful not to let my sore back touch the hard leather. I cringe with every movement, imaging the curling snake between my shoulder blades, and feel the urge to itch at the skin. The pain isn't as severe as the first few minutes after the procedure, dulling down to a prickling sensation, but surprisingly, it comes with a weird sense of satisfaction.

"Now I wish I'd gotten a tattoo," Zain admits as she looks through a menu, seated opposite to me next to Theo. He met up with us here, having been too busy with 'family stuff' when we were at the tattoo parlor. Zain looks up from the menu and continues, "You look fucking badass."

"You can't even see it under my shirt right now."

"I can feel it," she smirks with a slow, sure nod. "You totally kick ass now."

Theo hides a quiet laugh behind his menu, and I remember the moment he'd caught me in our school gym. It feels like ages ago, but only a month and a week has passed since then. I smile to myself.

"What, you're not satisfied with your pierced nips?" Tave asks next to me.

My jaw drops, and I laugh at her embarrassed expression. "You actually did it?"

She shrugs, circling the cap of a ketchup bottle, her rings glinting. "I don't regret it one bit."

A while after giving our orders, our wooden pans of hot pizza slide on our table. We eat plenty, and when Tave makes a joke resulting in my snorting out soda from my nose and my stomach clenching from laughter, I find myself frozen in a moment of euphoria. My dinner is paid for, and I'm sitting with friends, eating good food. I savor every minute, letting myself let go of any troubles and worries.

But everything comes crashing down when a buzz emits from my back pocket, announcing a call.

Wiping the sauce from the corner of my lips, I look at the screen. Mom. An unsettling feeling pools in my stomach—she rarely calls when I go out.

"Hello?"

"Sage, I—" her sobbing voice makes my skin prickle. "I—I don't know what to do. He just—he—"

I interrupt her stammering, my own heart racing a mile a minute. "Mom, calm down. What's wrong?"

Another sob echoes across the phone, and I shudder, closing my eyes. "Mom, please," I plead and stand up, ignoring the concerned expressions on my friends. "Are you hurt? Talk to me."

"Your father, he—he hit me. He hit me and—I didn't think he'd ever—and then he just left. I don't know where he's gone. But please—please just come home."

I don't realize how hard I'm biting my lips until the metallic taste tingles on my tongue. "Lock the doors and don't let him come in," I say, surprised at my steady voice. "I'm on my way."

Pushing out of the booth, my thoughts spiral and fuel with blind fury. I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, or what I'm dealing with, only that I need to get home now.

"Sage, what is it?" Tave asks, his eyebrows pulling in concern.

"I need to get home right now." The words stumble out of my mouth, blurring into each other. "My mom, she's hurt, and I need to catch a—"

I curse. A subway is too slow, and I won't get there fast enough. It will take too long. My fists clench and unclench as I try to pull myself together and arrange my thoughts when an idea comes to me.

"Can one of you guys drive me there?"

Theo pats his bulgy front pocket. "I'll take you. Let's go."

I nod, and let him lead us out of the restaurant, unconsciously dodging rushing waiters and a crying toddler until I'm suddenly seated in his heated car, buckling my seatbelt and telling him my address. My thoughts are in jumbles, my mom's voice and sobs ringing in my head.

He hit her. He hit her. He hit—

"Are you okay?" Theo's cool voice rouses me out of my spiraling mind.

Looking down, I see bone white knuckles gripping the seat too hard. I let go and hug my covered arms instead. "I just need to see her."

He says nothing, and we drive in silence. I'm too wind up with anticipation to worry about him seeing my battered, dangerous neighborhood. Only Roan, Mom, and fury at my father consume me.

When the car slows down in front of the familiar brownstone building, I unlock the door and step out. The yellow gaze of the street lamps lining the road watch me as I shiver under my wool shirt and take the first few steps, closely followed by Theo. A homeless man in brown-grey rags sits on a sidewalk behind our car. He coughs and splutters, spits from the back of his throat on the road, and watches me and Theo.

To my disdain, I spot my father's long-limbed figure drunkenly limping on the other side of the street, a green coat covering his thin body. I can see the familiar holes in the sleeves from here. Sewn over and over again by my mother's delicate fingers. This far away, he looks innocent and frail; harmless.

But I know better.

My feet move on their own accord, taking me across the empty distance between us until he realizes my presence. He stares with his hands shoved in his pockets and grins stupidly, like he's meeting an old friend of his.

"Sagie-kid," he drawls. I resist the urge to slap him across his bony face. "Where were you?"

My chest shakes when I let out a breath. "Don't fucking call me that."

He tuts and shakes his head. "You're right. Ungrateful, silly girls like you don't deserve nicknames." This close, I can only shake in anger as he towers over me and washes me with his alcohol breath. But I'm reminded of worse days as a little girl, and suddenly the rage that was once brewing and spewing in the center of my chest shrinks until I'm shaking more with fear than anger. Stupid, silly girl. Only tough until her sorry father stands in front of her. "You got a boyfriend now?" He continues, teetering on his toes as a strong gush of wind blows between us. I close my eyes, imagining him flying away with the wind, further and further until he disappears. But his raspy, slurred voice reminds me that this is real, this is happening now. "Of course, you'd be whoring around while your pathetic mother—"

A flicker of anger ignites at the mention of my mother, and I draw strength from it. "You hit her. You don't get to call me anything because you're a fucking coward."

My daring words ring in the empty street, and his eyes narrow. Silence stretches painfully, the momentum of my words wrapping around us dangerously. His face twists in anger, transforming into something terrifying before my eyes. I know, then, that I've said the wrong thing, and my heart pounds so hard my chest hurts.

It happens in slow motion: he lifts his hand in the air, I bring my hands to my face and my shoulders cower back.

But the hit never comes.

I'm met with Theo's back. He stands as a shield between us, his hand gripping my father's forearm, and I imagine his dark eyes staring him down. "Do not lay a hand on her."

He only slightly looks up at Theo's tall figure, eyes wide until I can see the swirl of raging blood in the whites of his eyes. He tries to pull his hand from Theo's grip but fails. This angers him more. "Or what, pretty boy?"

"Or I get you thrown in jail for domestic abuse," Theo hisses. "If it were me, I'd let you rot in a jail cell for the rest of your life, but that's not my decision to make. It's hers."

My father's angry gaze turns back to me, and I resist the urge to cower, standing with a leveled gaze. Somehow, Theo's presence calms me and dulls the fear that gripped me a minute ago.

His eyes soften, but I'm not easily fooled. Images of a twelve-year-old girl staring at her bruised cheeks in a mirror flash before my eyes.

"You wouldn't do that to your father, would ya?"

It's easy to throw him in jail. Theo undoubtedly has his connections and would keep to his promise, and my family and I will finally be freed of this man. Everything inside me screams to the decision until it becomes a physical shove that urges me to follow it.

But the logical side of my brain resists. My mother will never allow it. As much as she's been through, her forgiving heart sees the possibility of redemption in this sick man. And I fear she will never forgive me.

"Let him go," I finally speak through gritted teeth, every word squeezing my heart more and more. I step closer to him but make sure Theo's arm still stands as a barrier between us. "But I swear to God, if I ever see your face here again, I won't hesitate the next time."

Theo frowns at me—he doesn't understand my decision—but I only nod in reply, the movement a sealing stamp to my father's fate. Relenting, Theo lets go of his arms, giving him a final shove that makes him stumble. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

My father only stares at me with his hands limp at his sides, and I cross my arms defensively. His stare is heavy and it weighs down on me until I look away. I think he's about to say something but he only dips his head instead. Then, he turns around and limps away.

It's silent in the street save for my heavy breathing and the patter of his feet on the pavement. The homeless man from the other side of the street stares at us and my father. I watch as his figure grows smaller and smaller until it rounds a corner and disappears.

He's gone for good.

I should be relieved. My shoulders should sag with release and my heart should feel lighter . . . But my eyes burn with tears and my chest is opening with a hole that fills my ribcage slowly and slowly until I feel it pressing down on my heart.

He's gone for good.

My knees buckle beneath me, but Theo's steady arms are quick to catch me. I let his broad build hug my narrower one, I let his hands tuck my head in his chest, and I let the sobs quietly rack my body.

Over Theo's shoulder, the homeless man locks eyes with me. He shakes his head slowly and spits on the road. I saw what you did, his silent words ring across the street between us.

I press my face tighter into Theo's chest. He's gone for good. He's gone.

"Hey, hey," Theo coos in my ear, his large hands running over my hair, "I've got you. I've got you." A wet patch forms between my cheeks and his twill blazer, but he only presses me closer. "It's okay, I've got you."

In that moment, any remaining crumb of a wall that I've held between me and this boy falls, and disappears into the empty streets under my home.

༺༻

A.N: Hey guys! You can find Sage's tattoo in the media section. Don't forget to vote and comment! <3