Morning doesn't arrive gently.
It crashes in through the blinds, sharp and invasive, slicing across Ace's face like an accusation. Her head throbs. Her throat burns. Her body feels like it's been wrung out and left to dry.
She hasn't moved since the music stopped.
Her phone lies face-down on the mattress, screen buzzing every few minutes like a trapped insect.
She knows who it is without looking.
Still, she flips it over.
Max: Are you okay?Max: You left really fast last night.Max: I didn't mean for any of that to happen.Max: Please text me back.
Ace's chest tightens.
She doesn't respond.
She locks the screen instead, like slamming a door.
Her stomach lurches again. She stumbles to the bathroom, dry-heaves over the sink, sweat breaking out along her spine. The mirror shows her someone she barely recognizes. Blood-crusted knuckles. Mascara smeared into dark bruises beneath her eyes. Hair a mess. Mouth set hard, like if she loosens it even a little, everything will spill out.
She turns away.
Back in her room, she sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, shaking. The quiet is too loud. The day feels wrong on her skin. Sunlight doesn't belong to people like her.
Her phone buzzes again.
She doesn't look.
She grabs her hoodie and pulls it on like armor, even though it's too warm for it. Long sleeves hide the damage. Always hide the damage.
Ace reaches for her tattoo kit.
Bad idea.
She knows it's a bad idea the second her fingers close around the machine, but she doesn't stop. The hum fills the room, familiar and comforting and dangerous all at once.
She doesn't stencil. Doesn't plan.
She just presses the needle into her own skin.
Pain flares bright and clean, cutting through the fog. She hisses, biting down on her lip hard enough to taste copper.
Good.
Pain makes sense. Pain doesn't ask questions.
The design is rough. Messy. A jagged flame fractured down the middle, like it's splitting itself apart.
Her hand trembles.
Her phone lights up again.
Max: Ace. Please. I'm worried.
Ace glances at the screen, heart slamming painfully against her ribs. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Say something. Anything.
Instead, she flips the phone face-down again and keeps going.
The needle slips.
Blood wells up.
She laughs weakly, tears blurring her vision. "Of course," she mutters. "Of course you screw it up."
Her vision swims. The room feels tilted, like she might fall straight through the floor if she lets go.
She shuts the machine off, suddenly exhausted, suddenly empty.
Outside, the city hums on. People go to work. Birds do whatever birds do. Life continues, inconsiderate and relentless.
Ace curls back onto her bed, hoodie still on, arm burning, phone buzzing ignored beside her.
Max keeps texting.
Ace keeps choosing silence.
Not because she doesn't care.
Because caring feels like standing on the edge of something tall, knowing if she steps forward, there's no guarantee she survives the fall.
So she stays still.