I shoved the duffel bag deep beneath the couch, right behind the peeling upholstery and the stack of old magazines Tiffany kept saying she'd throw out. One more secret for the floorboards to hold.
If she found it, I was screwed.
Tiff wasn't nosy. She was worse—clever.
She could unravel me with a look and a raised brow. Like Mum used to.
And right now, I needed her not asking questions.
So I did what I always did when I didn't want her to see how much was slipping through the cracks—I cooked.
Our kitchen was nothing fancy. The tiles were a dull cream gone slightly grey, and the cupboard doors hung just a little crooked, like they were too tired to keep pretending. The fridge buzzed with the sound of death on slow approach, and a damp patch had reappeared above the window like an unwanted ghost.
But it was home.
I flicked the stove on and dug around in the freezer. One half-frozen chicken breast, some mixed veg that had more ice than colour, and the dregs of a soy sauce bottle. Good enough.
I set the pan on the heat and started in, slicing the chicken with a blunt old knife that made the job more of a sawing competition than anything elegant. Steam rose as it sizzled in the oil, and I threw in the veg with a dash of pepper for show.
The scent filled the flat. Garlic, salt, heat. Comfort.
She wandered out ten minutes later.
Hair all blonde and messy from sleep, like spun straw whipped by a breeze. Her fringe stuck up in one direction, her hoodie sagged off one shoulder, and her pale legs poked out beneath a pair of flannel pyjama shorts patterned with cartoon bats. Her face was still round with girlhood, cheeks dusted with pink from sleep, lips full and a little chapped.
Blue eyes. Same as mine. Big and watchful, like she was always listening even when you thought she wasn't.
She padded in with mismatched socks—one red, one grey—and yawned.
"You're cooking," she said, voice still thick with sleep.
"I do that, sometimes."
"No, you attempt that. Remember last time?"
"I remember you refused to admit I make a killer spag bol."
"You used ketchup."
"Tomato's tomato, love," I said, stirring the pan with exaggerated flair. "Besides, tonight's gourmet. Chicken stir-fry à la desperation."
She sat at the little dining table, head in her hands. "Please tell me you didn't set the rice on fire again."
I dropped rice onto the plates, fluffier than usual—small miracles. "Only slightly scorched. Adds flavour. Bit of character."
As I handed her a plate, she glanced up and paused, brows knitting together.
"Cass..."
I sighed. "Don't."
"Your face."
"It's still on, isn't it?"
"Barely."
I knew what she saw. Twenty-three and already looking older. Skin pale beneath the bruises, jaw shadowed with stubble I hadn't had time—or motivation—to shave. My nose was a bit crooked from a punch two nights back that might never heal right. Eyes sharp but tired, ringed dark. Cheekbones too high, Mum used to say—looked like trouble was carved into my face.
She didn't press.
She never did when it really mattered. Which somehow made it worse.
We ate in silence for a bit.
She tucked one leg beneath herself, shoveled food into her mouth like she was starving, and gave a satisfied hum when she swallowed.
"Not bad," she mumbled. "Shocking."
"Rude."
"Truthful."
I smirked. "Got any thrilling tales from school today?"
"Miss Cartwright nearly cried in chemistry."
"Oh? Someone set fire to the Bunsen burners again?"
"No," she said, licking sauce from her spoon. "She just made the mistake of asking what we'd do if we had one day left on Earth. I said I'd burn everything down and kiss a girl."
I choked slightly. "You what?"
She shrugged. "I'm sixteen, not dead."
I blinked at her, then shook my head. "Alright, Bonnie. Remind me to never give you matches."
"Already have three in my drawer."
I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.
After dinner, I washed the dishes while she sat on the worn-out couch, knees drawn up, tapping something on her phone. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands. She kept glancing over, like she could sense something gnawing at the edge of my thoughts.
"You're planning something," she said finally.
The plate in my hands slipped slightly under the water.
I forced a casual tone. "I'm always planning something."
"Yeah," she said softly. "But this time feels like you'll get in trouble"
I dried my hands on the tea towel and leaned against the counter. She was watching me again, blue eyes narrowed, hair falling in soft waves around her face. The resemblance between us was sharper in these quiet moments—same chin, same stubbornness in the jaw, same way we carried our silence like a second skin.
I crossed the room and dropped beside her.
"You've got nothing to worry about."
"You always say that."
I reached out and tugged her close. She came willingly, curling into me, face pressed into my shoulder.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to us. You hear me?"
She nodded. But I felt the tension in her spine.
"I'm serious, Tiff. I've got a plan. It's solid."
She didn't ask what it was.
She knew better.
Instead, she whispered, "Be careful, Cass."
"I'm always careful."
"You're not."
I kissed her temple. "Sleep. I'll be back before you know it."
She looked up at me—barely sixteen, but her gaze felt older than mine.
"I hate when you say that," she murmured.
And I hated that she had reason to.
But I smiled anyway.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Tiffany fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.
Her breathing slowed, soft and even. One hand curled into the fabric of my hoodie, like she was still afraid I might vanish the second she let go.
I didn't move.
The flat had gone quiet again. The kind of quiet that settles deep—past the walls, past the floor, like the building itself had fallen asleep.
Outside, the city kept humming. The distant sirens. The low growl of a car engine. A bus screeching to a halt three streets over. The radiator clicked and wheezed in the corner like it was exhaling with us.
I looked down at her—my sister, my anchor.
She had a faint freckle just above her right brow. Same one Mum had. Her hair had fallen across her cheek, strands of pale gold catching the kitchen lamp glow like threads of light. Her lips were parted slightly, her face finally relaxed.
She looked younger when she slept.
Less like someone who had to carry too much.
I sat there until I was sure—until the grip on my hoodie slackened, and her breathing stayed steady.
Then I carefully, carefully slipped out from under her.
Tucked the blanket over her knees.
Switched off the kitchen light.
And left.
The city had changed while we were inside.
Night had thickened into something heavy. Fog clung to the pavement in thin curls, trailing like ghost fingers along the gutters. The streetlamps flickered in odd intervals, turning puddles into patches of trembling gold.
I kept my hood up, hands in my pockets, boots crunching against broken bits of glass and old leaves as I walked.
Everything smelled like wet asphalt, engine oil, and late-night takeaway. That mix of rot and comfort that only cities could conjure. A bin had been knocked over near the alley—seagulls picking through the wreckage like drunk scavengers.
But further out—past the pubs and minicab stands, past the greasy kebab shops and closed-off train stations—the world got quieter.
Colder.
I boarded a night bus with two people already asleep and a third muttering into his phone like it owed him money. I didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared out the window as the buildings thinned.
Graffiti gave way to cracked brick. Neon lights gave way to shadow.
And somewhere, far past the edges of London's forgotten neighbourhoods, Villa Dahlia waited.
I got off at the last stop.
Didn't bother checking my phone. I didn't need it telling me how late—or how stupid—this all was.
From here, it was a walk.
The pavement ended three streets down. Beyond that, it was nothing but cracked gravel and silence.
The deeper I went, the more the world changed.
Trees leaned in over the path like they were listening. Bare branches tangled against the moonlight, casting jagged shadows that moved even when the wind didn't. The sky above was the colour of cold iron, streaked with low clouds that glowed faintly from the distant city glow.
And ahead, beyond a curve in the overgrown road, I saw it.
Dahlia.
Or at least, the first piece of it.
A rusted gate stood between two crumbling stone pillars, thick with moss and ivy. One of the iron bars hung at an angle, like someone had twisted it open by brute force—or like it had grown tired of keeping people out.
The sign nailed to the stone was almost unreadable.
VILLA DAHLIA — PRIVATE PROPERTY — TRESPASSERS WILL—
The rest was lost to time and rust.
I reached out, touched the gate.
It groaned under my fingers like it hadn't been moved in decades.
The path beyond was a narrow stretch of stone, mostly swallowed by weeds and dead leaves. Trees arched over it like a tunnel, shrouding everything in shadow.
I stood there for a moment, hand still on the gate.
This was it.
No turning back.
No guarantees.
I thought of Tiffany—safe, warm, curled on the couch—and took one step forward.
Then another.
The cold bit deeper the moment I crossed the threshold.