Chapter Text
Mina missed the lock the first time.
Her key scraped uselessly against the plate. Iron on brass, too loud in the empty street. For a moment she stood there swaying, her eyes unfocused, forehead almost touching the glass. Then she clenched her teeth, steadied herself and tried again. Her shop, her little home away from home, looked too perfect from the outside. Warmly lit by the buzzing streetlamps along the sidewalk, casting her warped reflection across the display window.
A woman in utter ruin, across polished glass.
The door finally opened, the bell above the frame chiming once as she stepped in and locked it shut.
The air was clean. Fabric and talcum, and little hints of perfume she used sparingly. Every display exactly how she wanted it; mannequins poised mid-motion, racks evenly spaced, colors arranged to draw attention without overwhelming the soon-to-be-buyer.
She had designed every part of this boutique to be intimate. To be warm and welcoming. But tonight it felt small, and pressing. Like the walls had leaned inward while she was gone.
She stood there, breathing shallowly, feeling the distinct absence of relief that the action would otherwise bring.
Her heels were broken. One dangled uselessly as she shifted her weight. A seam along her side had split open, thread frayed and curling like it had tried and failed to hold her together. Mascara streaked down her cheeks in uneven lines, running over smeared makeup. She could feel the grit of dried tears at the corners of her eyes, the bruises along her ribs and shallow cuts beneath the tears in her clothes.
She’d been chewed up by the night, and spat back out.
Standing here among her own creations, like an intruder. An insult to what she preached.
The anger simmered to the surface, slow and poisonous. It followed her home like a shadow, as she stalked through the streets. Memories of indignation, the indifference she suffered at the hands of the Regency. The way their glances would slide past her, their attention already elsewhere even as she spoke.
All that effort she invested into tonight. All the preparation, the hunger. Now there was nothing.
No power in her veins, no presence in her mind.
Just silence.
When it had mattered most.
Her gaze drifted to the front display, her best work facing the world outside. Dresses she’d slaved over for days, pining over every little detail.
She took a step forward without thinking, her hands lifting for the meticulously arranged fabrics.
It would be easy. Too easy. She knew the seams, she spent hours stitching them. They would tear asunder, years unraveled in mere seconds. All she had to do was pull.
She closed her fingers around the velvet curtains, pulling them shut hard enough to make the rings rattle. The street vanished from her view behind a wall of blackout fabric.
Mina exhaled shakily and crossed to the door, where she flipped the sign to Closed.
✦ ✦ ✦
The backrooms of her boutique was her haven. She stood there among the space, breathing in the scent of thread and chalk. Tables cluttered with patterns and pins, sketches layered where she had abandoned them mid-thought.
She stripped without ceremony. The ruined dress came first, peeled off and tossed into an empty bin with a dull, final thud. Then her shoes, then stockings, then the rest. Each piece discarded without a second thought.
Finally her parasol, one of her most beloved pieces. Now bent out of shape and riddled with holes. She stuffed it in last, then went upstairs. Naked and aching.
Upstairs, the apartment was dark and silent. She turned a faucet and waited for the tub to fill, water slowly heating. She sat on the edge and watched it, hands braced on her knees. No oils or salts, no little indulgences. Only curls of steam. Only heat.
As it finished, she went to the bedroom. Her movements were practiced and automatic, kneeling to reach beneath the mattress. Her fingers closed around cool, corked glass. Black and unmarked. She brought it with her to the bath.
The bathwater had settled by the time she returned, surface barely rippling. Mina lowered herself into it slowly, hissing under her breath as the heat bit into her skin. She brought the bottle in with her, letting it be submerged and warmed by the heat of the water. She sank until it reached her shoulders, tension bleeding out of her.
She sat there for a while, letting it all bleed away. Before finally uncorking the bottle and pressing its lip to hers. She tilted back and drank deep, tangy iron and sweetness washing away the night.
She drank until the bottle was lighter in her hand. Until the heat in her chest matched the heat of the water. She hadn’t intended to feed this much, not from the reserves she built so painstakingly. But her body appreciated it all the same.
She felt the difference immediately. The steadier beating of her undead heart. The way the ache in her muscles eased and faded. Bruises darkening, then lightening, then disappearing. Mina closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the porcelain, letting the rage soften its edges as her body stitched itself back together.
✦ ✦ ✦
She stayed there, until the water cooled. When the chill crept in, she stood, drained it and filled it again. The second heat was softer. With it, she washed herself thoroughly. Makeup gone, blood rinsed away. She stepped out clean.
She dressed simply, a silk black nightgown. Before going back downstairs, taking the bottle with her.
The workshop looked different when she was steady. She pulled up a stool and sat, elbows on her knees, and let herself simmer. She looked at the table where she had ruined her hands learning to cut clean lines. At the racks of unfinished pieces waiting for decisions only she could make.
At the shelves, where materials were stacked and labeled with care.
It would have been easy to give in earlier. To tear at the dresses on display and upstairs and give into rage. Now the thought felt only obscene.
She loved this work.
Loved it in the way that only came from hours spent alone with failure, from patience and passion.
The idea of undoing it all left a sour knot in her chest.
Instead, she fished out a small corkboard from beneath one of the tables. The kind she used for keeping track of orders, materials and costs, but this one was new and bare. She carried it upstairs and set it beside her bed, leaning it carefully against the wall.
At her desk, she drummed her fingers, then wrote. Something simple would suffice for now.
When she crossed back to the corkboard, she pinned a single sheet at the center. Its header large and plain.
The Pyramid.
Tomorrow, she would begin. No more gods, no more favors. No faith placed in anything that could just vanish when it was needed most.
Mina Ha looked at the board, until the shape of it settled in her mind. Then she got into bed and turned out the light.
Sleep came quickly. Heavy and dreamless.
Tomorrow. New York would be hers.