Em scans the job fair in its bright, noisy, gaudy glory: vinyl banners, folding tables, lanyards, someone’s branded stress ball bouncing along the ground. Okay, yeah. This is more like it. Odd to be relieved to be in a place like this.

Em signs up at the front booth and grabs a name tag, pausing with her marker. All caps to show clarity and confidence? Approachable first-letter-only capitalization? Saucy cursive?

She sneaks a peek at the others, spots two neat block-letter JENNIFERs and a confident-looking AMIR, and copies the ones that look like they belong there. She pats it on crooked, peels it off, and tries again. Then she spots the banner beside the signup booth. Future of Biotechnology: Set Your Path Now — Sponsored by Aurevion.

Interesting. I wonder if they’re here. Aurevion is basically the gold standard in biotech: huge in medicine, constantly making international headlines, more than a little daunting.

She’d actually applied for an internship in her third year of university, but she didn’t even make it to an interview. She spots their booth. There’s no spinning prize wheel, bowl of candy, or desperate stack of flyers. Just a pristine white tablecloth, a gold-foil logo, and the quiet confidence of being the most coveted company at the job fair.

The lineup wraps halfway around the room, so she aims for lower-hanging fruit. Bigger fish, smaller pond. Just my style. She starts with a plant-genomics booth. The representative is friendly, even perking up when Em mentions lab management and grant writing. Then the yellow flags start waving. The representative’s smile stays bright as she explains they’re looking for someone with “a lot of flexibility” who can “go the extra mile.”

Em eyes the crushed energy drink cans lined under the table like emergency rations. She’s not exactly the type who needs help with anxious motivation.

Her attention drifts back in at “…exciting, high-pressure environment,” and swears she sees the representative’s right eye twitch.

As neutrally as possible, Em asks, “How’s the general turnover rate? Do people seem to like it here?”

The representative’s face flickers before the canned excitement returns. “We’re a great launching pad for people early on in their careers.” Oof, not great. Em agrees politely and hands over her resume anyway.

The next viable option is a busier pharmaceutical booth. One recruiter cuts towards her through the crowd: tall, fit, and sharp-jawed beneath an androgynous haircut. She doesn’t bump a single shoulder or slow down once. “Hi there. Are you interested in working with us?”

Em does her best to smile confidently. “Yes, I think so.”

The recruiter studies her. Can she tell? Em tenses, fighting the urge to shrink back. The woman’s smile doesn’t vanish, exactly, but it stops belonging to the job fair. Her eyes seem to look past the resume, past the peeling name tag, past Em’s whole flimsy performance of professionalism. “Hmm,” she says.

Em sweats.

The look fades. “Could you tell us a bit about yourself?” the recruiter asks. “When are you planning to graduate?”

Em’s face flushes, but she decides to be honest. “I’ve actually been in the field for a few years already, but now I’m looking to switch gears into something that offers more room for growth.” Em’s quite pleased with her answer.

“I see,” the recruiter replies, consulting her clipboard. “I’m not sure we have much beyond entry-level work.”

Shit, blew it! Em smiles half-heartedly. The woman’s voice warms. “Where do you live? It can be a rough commute if you’re not in the neighbourhood.”

Em shifts, but this one’s hard to fuck up. “Mount Pleasant.”

“Oh, that’s not too far. If I can grab your resume, I’ll make a note in case something opens up.” Em hands it over, trying to mask her resignation. On to the next one.

At the final booth, two recruiters named Kyle have made their names into a shtick. They represent an algae-based protein company, and, to her surprise, seem genuinely interested in her background. They take her resume and promise to get in touch within a couple weeks. I guess I’ll hold my breath.

She does a final survey of the job fair, holding her new reusable bag full of company pens, brochures, and promotional tchotchkes. Not a bad haul.

Proud of herself, she texts Lena to plan Stanley for tomorrow, then heads home. The dark room and flash of yellow eyes fade a little bit more into the background of her day.

A few minutes after Em leaves, Cassia steps out of the job fair, her pasted-on smile melting from her face the second she crosses the threshold. She pauses long enough to watch Em disappear through the lobby. Then she rolls one shoulder, rakes a hand through her hair, and lets something underneath the polish settle back into place.

She’d watched Em fumble her name tag, clock the dead-eyed exhaustion at the plant-genomics booth, ask exactly the right question about turnover, and then keep moving. Once, when Em peeled her crooked name tag off with the grim determination of someone defusing a bomb, Cassia had almost laughed. Not unkindly.

By the time Cassia approached her directly, she already had most of what she needed. Unfortunately, she also had an opinion.

She recognizes something in Em. Not the awkwardness, obviously—Vael had never looked unsure of himself in front of a name-tag table in his life. But the restlessness, the refusal to retreat from something just because some sensible part of her knew better—that is familiar.

She pulls off the name tag she’d snagged and drops it onto a bench as she passes by. Vael looks up from his laptop as she approaches but says nothing.

Cassia drops into the chair, document holder loose in one hand. “Well. I see where you’re coming from. She’s an odd one, I’ll give you that.”

She hands him the resume. “Em Dubois,” Vael reads.

“She’s not guarded,” Cassia says. “Or maybe she’s bad at being guarded. Hard to tell. She was visibly uncomfortable almost the entire time.” A small smile tugs at her mouth. “There’s something earnest about her. A strange lack of armour.”

Vael looks up from the resume and frowns. “That sounds like naivety.”

“No. I think she knows enough to be wary. She just hasn’t mistaken being closed off for being wise.”

His gaze flicks down the hallway. “Was she uncomfortable because she didn’t belong, or because she thought wanting to belong was asking too much?”

Cassia considers it. “Both, I think. She kept trying. And answered honestly when lying would’ve made her look better.”

Vael’s thumb rests beside Em’s name. “Terrible strategy,” Vael says, amused despite himself.

Cassia only looks at him. “Don’t,” he warns.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.” After a pause, he crosses his arms. “What do you think, then? Does she run if the door opens, or does she look inside?”

Cassia pauses. “She walks towards the door even though she knows better.”

A smile cuts across Vael’s face. “Dangerous habit.”

Cassia’s expression settles into quiet satisfaction. “Trust your gut, then.”

“Cassia,” he says lightly, straightening as he folds the resume, “if I wanted to be talked into something, I’d have asked someone less smug.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he allows. He places the resume on the table, his decision made. “Tell Bryn to look into her.” He slides the resume back to her.

Cassia leans forward as she takes it. “So we’re considering her, then?”

“No,” Vael says, tilting his head, his earring catching the light. “We’re simply being curious.”

Cassia stands and bows, not quite hiding her smile. “Naturally.”

After she leaves, he returns to watching Serith’s room. Like always, the doors don’t open.

Em gets back home, ready to return to her routine of barely-there existence. But as she opens her door, the apartment light is already on. Liam is there, waiting.

“Oh, hello,” she blurts out with a forced, neutral cheeriness. She tries to place her shoes and bag next to the door smoothly, but her movements feel more self-conscious and clunky than anything.

“Em!” Liam reaches his arms out to hug her, but she steps back. His bright smile fades and his eyes harden. “What.” It isn’t a question.

Here we go. She knows this conversation is a minefield, and she’s always sucked at playing minesweeper with him. “We—You know that cheating is a dealbreaker for me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Cheating? What are you talking about?”

She crosses her arms. “It’s not cute, Liam. You’re well aware that I saw everything.”

“Yes, but you didn’t actually give me time to explain. We didn’t actually have sex,” he responds, spreading his hands.

“What does that matter?” she asks. “You’re trying to argue cheating only starts at penetration?” Pressure starts building behind her eyes.

Liam grins, clearly prepared to explain that this is simply some giant misunderstanding. “Well, it’s not actually cheating, though,” he counters triumphantly. His hand lifts, palm up, like he’s presenting evidence in court. “You offered, remember?”

She sighs and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t offer anything. I asked that question at the beginning of the relationship, and you flatly turned me down. You acted like there was something wrong with me for even raising the question.”

“What’s the big deal?” He shrugs. “It’s not like monogamy’s important to you.”

“What’s important to me is communication,” she snaps. “I distinctly remember asking you two weeks ago about how we were doing! And you said we were fine.”

“What was I supposed to say?” he shoots back. “You’ve been acting all depressed lately, just moping around the house. It’s not like you would’ve handled this well.”

She bristles. “I’ve been home because you explicitly told me to take a break! And like an idiot, I actually believed you!” she spits. “After all that we’ve been through, I trusted you to be sincere!” Tears prick the corners of her eyes.

“Annnd there’s the guilt tripping.” His mouth twists. “How long are you going to play the victim? It’s over, Em, it’s done. You keep playing this card, and everyone around you will get tired of it. You’ll end up all alone.”

The words hit like cold water. Who is he?

She throws her hands up. “Whatever. You win. I’m not doing this.”

He reins his anger in and hesitates. “Well, what do you want to do, then?” he asks, clearly hoping that he’s bludgeoned her argument into submission.

She weighs her answer, exhausted. “Nothing, we’re done.”

He takes a few steps back, his expression hardening. “Seriously? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she repeats. She’s got a headache. Her body aches. She’s simply… drained.

He coughs out a derisive laugh. “Fine then. Good fucking luck finding someone willing to deal with all your baggage, Em.”

He stomps around the apartment, slamming drawers and cupboard doors while he noisily throws chargers, socks, and loose toiletries into his backpack. She stands motionless in the middle of the room.

The door slams shut, rattling the cheap frame, and the silence is deafening. Her chest tightens painfully as she checks her phone—Lena’s still on night shifts, so probably sleeping right now.

Eventually, she makes it to the couch and curls into herself. She hopes to god that he’s wrong about her being left alone. She’s not sure how much more aloneness she can take.

A familiar thought rises from the darkness to greet her: Well, what if—But thinking of Lena and the thin thread of support her friendship silently offers, she dismisses it this time.

Instead, she books the earliest appointment she can with her counsellor and cries herself to sleep. She dreams miserably of bright yellow eyes, dark wings, and the terrible sensation of something vast turning towards her through the darkness.