Early morning came with a jolt—Foster snapped awake to the sound of retching, harsh and guttural, echoing from his tiny bathroom. He rolled off the floor, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and stumbled toward the noise. The whiskey and gin hadn’t touched him last night, but a dull ache throbbed behind his temples—his enhanced constitution might’ve diminished the hangover, but it hadn’t killed it completely. He pushed the bathroom door open and froze.

  Sofia was hunched over the toilet, her dress—black and sleek—clinging to her sweat-damp skin. Her head was buried in the bowl, hands gripping the rim as she heaved. Vomit splattered the porcelain, a sickly mix of booze and bar food, and the air stank of bile and gin. But that wasn’t what worried him —it was her body, shifting, rippling like a mirage. Her dark hair lightened mid-retch, bleaching to a bright blonde, then curly and dark red. Her eyes flicked up, bloodshot - but suddenly blue, wide and startling against her pale face. She gagged again, and her frame shrank, collapsing into a child’s small form—skinny arms, a round face—before snapping back, morphing into something else: a taller woman with sharp cheekbones, then a patchwork of features—brown eyes, red hair, a snub nose—all flickering in and out like a broken holo-feed.

  Foster’s gut twisted— she retched again, a pitiful whimper escaping between heaves, and he snapped out of it, dropping to his knees beside her. “Hey, I’ve got you,” he said, voice steady. He gathered her hair—blonde now, shifting back to dark—as it spilled forward, holding it back with one hand while the other rested on her shoulder, anchoring her. Her skin was clammy under his touch, her body trembling as it cycled through forms—a curvy brunette, a wiry teen, then back to something closer to her usual self, caramel skin and dark eyes, but distorted, unsteady.

  “F-Foster…” she croaked, her voice raw, cracking as she spat into the bowl. Her head lolled, and she shifted again—momentarily amber-eyed—before settling into a shaky version of her familiar face. “I’m… a mess…” Tears streaked her cheeks, mixing with sweat, and she gripped the toilet harder, her nails—black polish chipped now—digging into the rim.

  “You’re fine,” he lied, keeping his tone soft, his hand firm on her hair as she heaved again, less violently this time. His knees ached against the cold bathroom tile, but he stayed put. Her satin dress rode up as she shifted, exposing a sliver of thigh, but he kept his eyes on her face. He didn’t care what she looked like at the moment, he just wanted her through this.

  She slumped back finally, panting, her body settling into her usual form—caramel skin, dark hair, though matted and damp. Her dark eyes met his, glassy with exhaustion and shame. “Sorry…” she whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t be,” Foster said, letting her hair fall gently and grabbing a towel from the sink. He handed it to her, his scarred hand brushing hers. “Rough night, that’s all. I think we’ll do better on our next date.”

  “Seriously…” She brushed away the tears from the corners of her eyes. “... you’d want to go out again?”

  “No alcohol next time and I promise it will go better.”

  “I promise too.” She hiccuped. “Normally this doesn’t happen. I fucked it up.”

  “Everything’s fine.” He gently led her back to the bed and carefully held her hand.

  “No, no… it’s not. I wanted the date to go good so I took too many pills. I'm not supposed to. I know I'm not supposed to. I just didn't want to be anything but normal for you last night… but I’m not normal.”

  “You don’t have to explain-”

  “I do! Or you’ll think I’m a juicer…” She shook her head and hiccuped again. “I really didn’t think I’d get sauced on you and ruin our date… I didn’t think it could even happen… but then I took too many of the pills to help me stay - just normal - and I was, I was just me… and I fucked it up, because just me is such a loser. I’m so sorry.”

  “So you were trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?” Foster grinned.

  “No!” She looked away. “I just didn't want to have to over-think everything.”

  “Sofia… I would very very much like it… if you would go on another date with me. Please. Let’s try again, someplace less… intense.”

  “O.k.” Her voice was quiet. “I’d like that too. I’m starting to feel… a bit better… I think that means the pills are out of my system, and my powers are kickin in… I’ll be super sober soon...”

  “Good, I would hate for you to have to suffer more, but I get to pick where we go next time. Now my van’s still at the club so how are we going to get you home? I could call you a cab?”

  “That’s not a problem. Could you open a window?”

  “Sure?” Foster walked over to the window and cracked it open, then slowly opened it more the rusted frame groaning as it gave way to the gray, overcast sprawl of the city beyond. A damp breeze slunk in, heavy with the tang of exhaust and wet concrete. He turned back to Sofia, her small form perched on the edge of his mattress, still wrapped in the aftermath of her rough morning—caramel skin slick with sweat, dark hair a tangled mess. Her dark eyes met his, flickering with something unsteady—shame, maybe, or exhaustion—but beneath it, a spark of resolve flared.

  “Alright,” he said, voice low, scratching the back of his neck. “I hope the fresh air makes you feel better—” He stopped, words snagging as she stood, swaying slightly, her bare feet scuffing the hardwood. She didn’t answer, just shot him a worried look, her crimson lipstick smeared into a faint shadow of its former glory.

  “Watch and then decide if you want another date.” she rasped, her voice still hoarse from the retching, but threaded with a defiant edge. She stepped toward the window, she unclasped the choker around her neck and dropped it, then her hands moved to the straps of her dress, fingers trembling. With a quick tug, she slid the thin straps off her shoulders, the satin slipping down her arms like liquid shadow. The fabric caught briefly at her chest, then her hips, before she gave it a sharp shimmy, letting it pool around her ankles in a crumpled heap. She stood there for a heartbeat, bare and unashamed, her caramel skin glowing faintly in the dim light, every curve laid raw—beautiful, fierce, and wholly herself. Foster’s breath hitched, but before he could say anything, she rippled like heat off a sun-scorched road.

  Her shoulders hunched, her arms elongating, fingers splaying wide as her nails glinted one last time. Her skin darkened to an oily, midnight sheen, feathers sprouting in a rush, sharp and sleek, swallowing her bare form as it shifted. Her legs thinned, bending backward with a sickening crack, talons curling from her toes—jet-black, glinting like obsidian under the dim apartment light. Her face stretched, nose and mouth fusing into a cruel, hooked beak, her dark eyes ballooning into glossy, unblinking orbs, coal-black and piercing. Wings unfurled where her arms had been, broad and powerful, the feathers rustling as they caught the draft from the open window. She shrank, collapsing into herself until she was no longer Sofia, but a raven—big, too big for nature, nearly three feet from beak to tail, its plumage shimmering with an unnatural luster. The discarded dress lay abandoned on the floor. One talon reached out and snatched her small purse off the ground, slipping the loop over her sleek black feathered head.

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  Foster staggered back a step, breath catching as the bird that was Sofia cocked its head, fixing him with one gleaming eye. He saw it in the eyes, that same mischief, it was still her. She hopped up onto the windowsill, talons clicking against the metal frame, the satin dress left behind like a cast off shadow. She turned, glancing back at him, and let out a harsh, grating Caw.

  “Sofia—” he started, but she didn’t wait. With a flex of her wings, she launched herself into the gray morning, the motion fluid and fierce, a black streak cutting through the damp air. Her feathers gleamed as she soared, banking hard over the jagged rooftops of the P-District. She climbed higher, wings slicing the overcast sky, a shadow against the dull clouds. The wind carried her cry back to him, sharp and fading, until she was just a speck swallowed by the urban haze.

  Foster swallowed, blinking his eyes, still in a moment of stunned shock.

  He was frozen for a minute or so... eventually he pulled out his phone, and texted. Free at seven? Meet at my place. His heart thudded as he glanced down at the crumpled satin dress and the silver choker on the floor, a dark puddle and a gleam against the carpet, and he shook his head. The room felt quieter now, emptier, but her presence lingered.

  He spoke to the empty air. “Hedy, that was a disaster but… I think…”

  She sighed though only he could hear her, I’ve known you long enough to know. I’ll do what I can to help - but she’s got serious issues… and so do you. If you say ‘I can fix her.’ we will have problems.

  Foster was silent at that, he picked Sofia’s dress and choker up off the floor and started walking it to his closet.

  ***

  Sofia’s wings sliced through the damp morning air, the city’s gray sprawl blurring beneath her as she banked hard, feathers ruffling against the wind. The raven’s eyes—her eyes—caught every jagged detail: the P-District’s crumbling rooftops, the flickering neon of a Sloppo’s sign - screw them! - the faint buzz of aetheric static prickling her magnetic senses. Her talons flexed instinctively, the primal rush of flight steadying the churn in her gut—last night’s booze, the pills, the humiliating meltdown in Foster’s bathroom. She’d bared too much and now she was a black streak fleeing the evidence of it all.

  The Broken Mask loomed below, drunken memories prickled at her. She angled toward a tower just a block away—a three-story slab of steel and glass, its lower floors scuffed but the upper ones polished, a cut above the usual outer rim squalor. Her place was on the second floor, a small but decent apartment. The window, always cracked open just so, beckoned, a square of shadow against the building’s sheen, and she dove, wings folding as she shot through the gap with a rustle of feathers, landing hard on the hardwood inside.

  The purse was slipped off her neck and the shift came faster than usual — her raven form unraveled, feathers melting into a shimmer of black as her body stretched and snapped back to human. She stood, bare and trembling, sweat beading on her caramel skin, dark hair spilling wild over her shoulders. Her breath hitched as she scanned the room—and froze. The living room, her sanctuary, was a wreck. Couch cushions slashed, a lamp toppled, her holo-pad gone from the coffee table.

  She heard them in the other room.

  “This isn’t safe man.”

  “It’s not a problem, everybody saw her leaving with that scrub last night, and she’s almost never at her place anyway.”

  She opened the door to see two figures rummaging through her space—grubby wall-hoppers in patched jackets, one rifling her bookshelf, the other stuffing a bag with her jewelry box. Thieves. In her place.

  Rage erupted, hot and jagged, drowning the embarrassment still gnawing at her. She didn’t think—just let the fury take over. Her skin rippled, darkening to an inky void, and her body exploded outward, limbs dissolving into a writhing mass of darkness —slick, barbed chaos, tipped with needle-black talons that gleamed like wet obsidian. The formless wrath - her body and her instincts merged into a mass of pure rage given form … A guttural snarl tore from her now not even vaguely human lips, as she surged forward. The thieves spun, eyes wide, mouths gaping—too slow. One tentacle lashed out, coiling around the first fool’s chest, barbs clamping down onto his jacket as he screamed. She flung him, his body arcing through the air and out the window - which wasn’t open quite wide enough - it exploded into a shower of glass and the thief went flying with a wet thud against the pavement below. The second tried to bolt, dropping the bag, but another tendril snagged his ankle, yanking him off his feet. His head cracked against the floor before she hurled him after his companion, his yell also cut short by the fall. It was only the second floor—not fatal, probably, but she didn’t really care either way. Let them limp away or rot; they’d picked the wrong place on the wrong day.

  The tentacles retracted, her form slowly pulling itself back to human as she stood panting, bare feet planted amid the mess. Her chest heaved, adrenaline buzzing, but the anger ebbed into something colder—shame, sharp and familiar. She’d lost it again, let the monster out. What was worse she’d let Foster see her puking up her guts in that damn bathroom… and then for some reason she’d changed in front of him, and now he’d never look at her the same. She could still feel his hands, steadying her hair as she was sick, his voice soft when it should’ve been disgusted. He was too good, too patient, and she’d fucked it up—showed him the twisted freak beneath the flirting facade. He wouldn’t want her now, not after that.

  She stumbled to her bedroom, the plush carpet soft under her feet, and threw herself onto the unmade bed—sheets tangled from restless nights, a faint whiff of her own perfume clinging to the pillows. Still naked, she rolled onto her back, then her side, curling into herself as her skin brushed the cool fabric. Her hands pressed against her face, muffling a groan. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, voice cracking. “Why’d I do that? Why’d I let him see?” The raven had been a reckless thing, a desperate bid to show him - her truth, but all she could picture was his wide eyes, the step back he’d taken—his shock. He’d never want to talk to her again. She’d blown it.

  A sharp ding cut through her spiral. Her phone. She lunged for her purse, heart slamming against her ribs as she pulled out her phone and swiped the screen. A text from Foster glowed there: “Free at seven? Meet at my place.” Simple, casual, like he hadn’t just watched her turn into a damned bird and fly away.

  Her breath caught, a laugh bubbling up—half relief, half disbelief. She was clutching the phone like it might vanish. She scrambled off the bed, bare skin prickling in the cool air, and bolted to her closet, yanking the sliding door open with a clatter. No satin dresses this time, no sultry vixen attire. Something conservative, something safe. She rifled through hangers: a denim jacket, too casual; a red blouse, too loud. Her fingers snagged a cream sweater, soft and loose, paired with high-waisted black jeans—simple, understated, a shield against her own chaos. She tugged them on, the fabric settling over her curves, then darted to the full-length mirror propped against the wall.

  She spun, checking angles—sweater draping just right, jeans hugging her thighs but not screaming for attention. Too plain? She swapped the sweater for a gray turtleneck, frowning at the reflection. Too dowdy. Back to the cream, then a navy blazer over it—sharp, but not stiff. An hour ticked by, clothes piling on the floor as she tore through options, muttering to herself. “Just pick something, idiot.” Finally, she settled—cream sweater, black jeans, ankle boots with a low heel, hair tamed into a loose braid. Conservative, but still her—just a little softer.

  She grabbed the phone again, thumbs hovering as her cheeks burned. She’d left him hanging—God, she was a mess. “See you then,” she typed, quick and clumsy, hitting send before she could overthink it. Her reflection stared back, wide-eyed and flushed, and she pressed a hand to her chest, steadying the wild thud of her heart. Seven o’clock. She had time to pull herself together, get showered, to be the kind of girl he deserved—not a monster. Then - as an afterthought she sent a message to the building's maintenance man - “Have someone fix my window, it’s broken again.”