(June's POV)
People think slimes have it easy. Like we're just puddles of giggles and sparkles floating through life, shifting at whim. But the truth? It's work. Constant work. If I'm not careful, I'll start to break down—leak at the seams, lose mass, dissolve parts I didn't mean to. Some nights I've had to eat glue, yeast, whatever I could scavenge to stay solid.
And even then, outside my family, the slime community acts like I'm the one who should be ashamed. Not for leaking. Not for struggling. But for choosing to be a woman. Tradition says most slimes stay nonbinary—fluid in form and in gender. It's seen as sacred, a living symbol of balance. Choosing femininity, fully and fiercely, is like spitting in that holy well. Like refusing a birthright. I've heard it whispered: I'm just a party trick in a dress,but they're wrong. I'm not pretending. I'm not playing. I'm a woman made of magic and willpower, and that takes more than shape.
It takes everything. Maintaining this form? It drains me. I drink more potions than coffee just to keep my shape from sliding into a puddle mid-mission. I'm saving up—every bit I can—for the Essência Fixa—Final Brew of Self, the kind that stabilizes you for good. No more flickers. No more daily recalibration. Just being. But I'm scared. Because once you lock it in, there's no going back.
Back in the so-called normal realm—America—it was all flashing lights and fancy words, a place sold as a land of dreams. But those dreams? They had conditions. They were handed out with strings—tied to the right skin, the right paperwork, the right kind of silence. For a girl like me? Someone who had to flee with her family from a homeland that saw slimes like me as a defect, not a daughter—it wasn't opportunity. It was survival roulette.
People still ask why I don't go to the magical doctors or science ones. But meu povo—we don't share our bodies. Not really. Not outside the slime clans. Our biology's too strange, too sacred. The truth is, slimes can work on slimes. Anyone else? They wouldn't get it. Might try to fix me into something I'm not.
If I wanted to stay nonbinary, sure—they'd all nod and call it a beautiful balance. But I didn't. I chose to be a woman. And since my people refuse to share the deeper workings of slime biology, hardly anyone outside the clans can help. The people who did learn couldn't share the knowledge—they're stuck in the clans, locked in place like prisoners dressed as priests. They seem happy, but it's all scripted. The smiles, the rituals, the pride—they're a cage.
I got lucky, sabe? My family—real sweethearts—they didn't blink. Papai cried like a leaking faucet, and Mãe stitched me a ribbon with old festival thread, said it'd keep my heart tied to something warm. My siblings? They fought over who got to hold my hand walking through the market like I was a queen. That kind of love—it's rare, even among our kind. Like, our bodies are supposed to be all about balance—emotion, shape, will. Equilíbrio. Which is fucking bullshit, if you ask me. Who decides what counts as balance anyway? But my family? They chose me. Not the balance. Not the sacred neutrality. Just me.
Though, I am glad that I am here, I do miss home at times. Finding a job has been a bit easier compared to where I came from—it's still hard, but at least here someone thinks twice before trying to string me up by my parts with dry ice. That's punishment where I'm from. I learned fast what the world wanted from someone like me—street work, body work, shadow work. That kind of woman. The kind people see as either a weapon or a plaything, depending on which way the sun hits the slime.
But Sonter work? That was the one night stand's idea—if you can believe it. I'd just been fired again from a diner job, couldn't even afford potion base, and rent was due on the crumbling apartment my whole family shared. He said it with a smirk, called it 'weird girl work with a pension.' Said I had the look—like I belonged in a badge, not behind a counter. I took the flyer half-drunk, half-drenched in self-pity. Didn't even believe it was real until the next morning, when the ghost map lit up on my floor.
Now look. That little apartment's a real house, tucked in a werewolf suburb where the moonlight smells like grilled ribs and nobody asks why my mailbox is slightly acidic. Werewolves? Surprisingly good neighbors. They bring casserole. They shovel snow. Sonter work? It was different.
The second that whistle curled up through my gut, like it knew me before I knew myself—I felt it. This wasn't some pity hire. This wasn't me playing mascot in someone's secret shame. This was made for a girl like me. A job with backbone. With strange codes and cursed protocols and spirit-bound spreadsheets sealed in blood.
It didn't feel like being invited. It felt like being recognized.
They don't stare.
People think slimes have it easy. Like we're just puddles of giggles and sparkles floating through life, shifting at whim. But the truth? It's work. Constant work. If I'm not careful, I'll start to break down—leak at the seams, lose mass, dissolve parts I didn't mean to. Some nights I've had to eat glue, yeast, whatever I could scavenge to stay solid.
And even then, outside my family, the slime community acts like I'm the one who should be ashamed. Not for leaking. Not for struggling. But for choosing to be a woman. Tradition says most slimes stay nonbinary—fluid in form and in gender. It's seen as sacred, a living symbol of balance. Choosing femininity, fully and fiercely, is like spitting in that holy well. Like refusing a birthright. I've heard it whispered: I'm just a party trick in a dress,but they're wrong. I'm not pretending. I'm not playing. I'm a woman made of magic and willpower, and that takes more than shape.
It takes everything. Maintaining this form? It drains me. I drink more potions than coffee just to keep my shape from sliding into a puddle mid-mission. I'm saving up—every bit I can—for the Essência Fixa—Final Brew of Self, the kind that stabilizes you for good. No more flickers. No more daily recalibration. Just being. But I'm scared. Because once you lock it in, there's no going back.
Back in the so-called normal realm—America—it was all flashing lights and fancy words, a place sold as a land of dreams. But those dreams? They had conditions. They were handed out with strings—tied to the right skin, the right paperwork, the right kind of silence. For a girl like me? Someone who had to flee with her family from a homeland that saw slimes like me as a defect, not a daughter—it wasn't opportunity. It was survival roulette.
People still ask why I don't go to the magical doctors or science ones. But meu povo—we don't share our bodies. Not really. Not outside the slime clans. Our biology's too strange, too sacred. The truth is, slimes can work on slimes. Anyone else? They wouldn't get it. Might try to fix me into something I'm not.
If I wanted to stay nonbinary, sure—they'd all nod and call it a beautiful balance. But I didn't. I chose to be a woman. And since my people refuse to share the deeper workings of slime biology, hardly anyone outside the clans can help. The people who did learn couldn't share the knowledge—they're stuck in the clans, locked in place like prisoners dressed as priests. They seem happy, but it's all scripted. The smiles, the rituals, the pride—they're a cage.
I got lucky, sabe? My family—real sweethearts—they didn't blink. Papai cried like a leaking faucet, and Mãe stitched me a ribbon with old festival thread, said it'd keep my heart tied to something warm. My siblings? They fought over who got to hold my hand walking through the market like I was a queen. That kind of love—it's rare, even among our kind. Like, our bodies are supposed to be all about balance—emotion, shape, will. Equilíbrio. Which is fucking bullshit, if you ask me. Who decides what counts as balance anyway? But my family? They chose me. Not the balance. Not the sacred neutrality. Just me.
Though, I am glad that I am here, I do miss home at times. Finding a job has been a bit easier compared to where I came from—it's still hard, but at least here someone thinks twice before trying to string me up by my parts with dry ice. That's punishment where I'm from. I learned fast what the world wanted from someone like me—street work, body work, shadow work. That kind of woman. The kind people see as either a weapon or a plaything, depending on which way the sun hits the slime.
But Sonter work? That was the one night stand's idea—if you can believe it. I'd just been fired again from a diner job, couldn't even afford potion base, and rent was due on the crumbling apartment my whole family shared. He said it with a smirk, called it 'weird girl work with a pension.' Said I had the look—like I belonged in a badge, not behind a counter. I took the flyer half-drunk, half-drenched in self-pity. Didn't even believe it was real until the next morning, when the ghost map lit up on my floor.
Now look. That little apartment's a real house, tucked in a werewolf suburb where the moonlight smells like grilled ribs and nobody asks why my mailbox is slightly acidic. Werewolves? Surprisingly good neighbors. They bring casserole. They shovel snow. They don't stare.
Sonter work? It was different.
The second that whistle curled up through my gut, like it knew me before I knew myself—I felt it. This wasn't some pity hire. This wasn't me playing mascot in someone's secret shame. This was made for a girl like me. A job with backbone. With strange codes and cursed protocols and spirit-bound spreadsheets sealed in blood.
It didn't feel like being invited. It felt like being recognized.
Now I'm in this decked-out van with a couple that won't stop humming road songs. From the outside, it looks like some dusty trade van from the backlot of a carnival, but inside? It's a whole damn house—bigger than sense would allow. Velvet curtains, a brass tea kettle clinking on its own, and a ghost steering wheel twitching under invisible hands unless one of us decides to take over.
Lettie peeked over at me from the couch-bed nook, gave this soft, curious smile, and then slid up into the seat across from me. Her skirt swished like a showgirl's sigh. "If you don't mind me asking," she said, like a new recruit trying to mind her manners, "how'd you become a Sonter?"
I didn't answer right away. Didn't feel like being soft about it either. Truth is, I didn't want to give the whole truth either—not yet. Not with that kind of look in her eyes. Like she was asking more than just a question. Like she was hoping my answer would tell her something about herself too. "School route," I said, blunt and simple. "Filled out a form. Took the ghostling placement test. Passed it. Got the stamp."
She blinked at me, like that answer didn't match her idea of how this worked. Her eyes darted from my face to the tattoos peeking out of Kaito's back as he cooked, like she was trying to reconcile the softness of the moment with the sharpness of the truth. "You can just go to school for it?" she repeated, this time slower, like she was turning the words over in her mouth and not sure she liked the taste.
"Claro," I leaned back a little, arms crossed. "They asked me how I wanted to join. I knew someone—someone kind—who helped me get into the academy route. It's not the most common, unless you've got connections or know the right circles. But it's steady. Structure. Papers and rankings."
Then I glanced at her, gave her a long, steady look. "How about you?" I asked, voice soft but pointed, the kind that said you don't have to answer, but I'm listening if you do.
She pointed to Kaito and grinned. "That fool took me to an old barn, said he wanted to show me something. Then next thing I know, we're dance-fighting owl family. No clue what was happening 'til I got a medal and a job."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Then yeah—you're the medium path. Not forced in, but not exactly walking in through the front door either. The school route? That's the easy one. The hard path's for folks who get dragged in—by blood, by curse, by survival. Yours? That's right in the middle. You chose it. But you didn't know you were choosing it. Makes a difference."
The alarm began to wail from the ghost intercom—low and warped like a vinyl skipping in hell. Outside, ghost lights flared and the van began to hum. Lettie groaned from her seat. "Now? Really? He just started cooking my favorite part of the meal."
I glanced up from the counter, narrowing my eyes at the flicker of fire rising from Kaito's palm. The air around him pulsed like a chorus line in slow motion—each stir of the pot drawing out a breath of rhythm, each breath coaxing melody from the ink along his back. It all sounded like something ancient pretending to be a lullaby. Thai, maybe. Some kind of dish with lemongrass and ritual. Lucky Lettie was a dancer—she could move with that kind of rhythm. Me? I'd have lost my mind ages ago with all that musical nonsense leaking off him like steam.
I was about to handle the ghost, but I secretly caught Lettie loving the fact that she got to use the mini gun they brought with the van. It made taking care of the herd so much easier. She stood up, annoyed but already reaching for her boots.
"Go on," I said, doing my best not to smirk. "I'm made of slime and I reached my limit of taking care of the ghosts yesterday.Plus, I known you love using that mini gun."
I gave her a look, and she raised both hands like she was surrendering. Her voice turned just a little too playful to be innocent. "Okay, okay—you got me. The mini gun is just so much fun."
She bolted up the spiral stairway, crowbar already in hand, as the van's upper hatch unlocked with a mechanical hiss. Outside, you could hear the echoes of that same ghost-stamped blues rhythm—the 27s, back again.
Gun mounts clicked into place with the rhythm of war drums.
And just like that, it was quiet again in the kitchen. Me and Kaito. Him stirring the pot with that slow, thoughtful rhythm of his. Each exhale letting out just enough musical fire to brown the surface of the stew.
I leaned back against the counter and nodded toward the melody tattoo crawling up his spine. Everyone had their theories. In the Sonter circles, they whispered about him—called him a trafficking demon who used chimes carved from bad poachers. Said he vanished for a couple of years, only to pop back up with that weird traveling circus crew. But here he was now, stirring stew like a monk who'd never heard a gunshot. "You ever gonna tell her?"
He didn't look up. Just stirred once, slow. Then, without a word, he reached for a second pot and started assembling a new batch—this one with ingredients I recognized were safe for me. Stuff I could absorb, actually taste. No theatrics. Just a quiet, thoughtful gesture while the main stew kept its rhythm. "Tell her what?"
"That you're ranked higher than you say. That you're old Sonter, not standard field. That your ink sings but not in the way she thinks." I dug around in the fridge while I said it, fishing out a chilled bottle of something fizzy—neutral enough for my kind to handle. I popped the cap and started setting the table while he kept stirring like nothing I said mattered.
His eyes flicked to me—calm, unreadable. But then his voice came, low and edged: "You won't tell her anything unless it comes down to it. I'm taking my time because I want my fiancée to settle in before she learns more of the truth. You're lucky she likes you so much. Stay quiet, and that little Adam's apple of yours stays right where it is."
I swallowed and checked my neck, almost without thinking.
He smirked. "I was watching you sleep. It's kinda sad, really, the way you try to hold that form. If that's what you're after—I can give you what you want."
I could've kept interrogating. I probably should've. But Kaito scares me more than most things in this world. Rumor has it his van is the merchant of merchants for this side of the Sonter community—carrying tools, secrets, even contracts most wouldn't dare touch. If he's got all that, then he's got a rodeo of his own. And me? I'm bringing my rank to the table—tech class, specialized. So for now, I'll stick close. See if he really can get me that potion.