Chapter 2

Ember woke up early, before the others. The lamps were still burning weakly, and the air smelled of metal and smoke.

She took her best clothes — the same she had worn on the stage, now dusty and wrinkled. She cleaned them as well as she could, using a small piece of cloth. Then she poured the last drops of water from a tin cup and wiped her face and neck. The water was warm and tasted like rust.

She looked at herself in a small cracked mirror. Her red hair was tangled, but she brushed it carefully with her fingers. For a short moment, she almost looked like the woman she used to be — before hunger, before fear.

Then she stood up, tied her boots, and stepped outside. The morning was cold and dry. Wind carried dust through the empty street.

Ember walked slowly between the metal houses. The settlement was waking up: people coughing, dogs barking, doors opening.

She stopped near the mechanic’s shed. A bald man was fixing an engine, his hands black with grease.

“Any work today? May I help you?” Ember asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “No. Try the canteen. Maybe they need someone to clean.”

She nodded and moved on. The ground under her boots was cracked and full of sharp metal pieces.

The canteen was almost empty. Two old women sat by the wall, drinking weak tea. Behind the counter, a woman with a long scar over her mouth was washing dishes.

Ember waited, then said, “Do you need help here? Anything I can do for you?”

The woman stopped for a moment, her eyes tired. “Help? With what? We have no food to serve, girl.” She pointed at the empty shelves. “Come back when there’s something to sell.”

Ember thanked her quietly and walked out. The air smelled of burned oil. Her stomach hurt.

She went to the greenhouse behind the saloon. Most of the glass was broken; a few dry plants hung like brown paper. A young man in a torn shirt was sitting nearby, smoking.

““Hey! Any work here? Need help?”

He didn’t even look up.

“No work. Can’t you see? Everything’s dead without water.”

Ember didn’t answer. She looked at the yellow plants, dry and bent. She felt the same — bent, tired, without life.

Then he grinned.

“But if you fuck me good, I’ll give you food.”

Ember’s face went hard.

“What?!”

“Come and live with me and I will feed you.”

“I’m a dancer, not a whore!”

She turned and walked away fast.

He shouted after her:

“When you’re hungry enough, you’ll suck and spread anyway!”

She kept walking, heart pounding.

... Will I really come to that?

She kept walking. She spoke to the guards, to a trader, even to the old woman who cleaned the lamps.

Every answer was the same. No work. No food. Nothing left.

By noon, her throat burned, and her feet were heavy. She found a place near the broken water tank and sat down. The metal was hot under her.

For a long time, she just looked at her hands — thin, dusty, trembling slightly. Around her, the settlement made low sounds: a hammer, a cough, a dog barking somewhere far.

There was nothing left to ask for.

I slam the door so hard the frame rattles and lean my back against it, chest heaving like I just ran ten miles. The lantern is brighter tonight; someone refilled the oil. The yellow light makes the room look smaller, the walls thinner, the shadows longer. I can almost see through them to the corridor beyond.

I don’t bother with lies tonight. My fingers are already ripping at buttons, tearing the blouse over my head, skirt shoved down my hips, bra flung into the corner. The panties are last; they’re glued to my cunt, soaked through, obscene. I leave them tangled halfway down my thighs because I’m shaking too hard to bend properly.

I collapse back on the cot. Knees up, legs falling open before the mattress even stops bouncing. My cunt is swollen, angry-red, dripping the second my ass hits the sheet. I can feel the wet spot spreading under me already, warm and shameful.

I shove three fingers straight inside without warning. The stretch burns deliciously. The wet sound is loud, filthy, impossible to miss. For three whole seconds I don’t care.

Then footsteps in the corridor. Heavy boots. Slow. Deliberate.

I freeze, fingers buried to the knuckles, walls fluttering around them like a trapped bird. The steps stop right outside my door.

Knock. Once. Polite. Testing.

I bite my lip until I taste blood. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t you dare come.

Knock knock. Harder. Impatient.

My cunt clamps down on my fingers so hard it hurts. I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears leak hot down my temples. Go away go away go away go away.

Thirty seconds of silence that feel like hours. Then the boots shuffle, retreat.

I let out a shaky, half-sob and start moving again, slow, guilty circles over my clit with my thumb. I swear to myself I’ll stop in ten seconds. Just need to take the edge off. Just a little.

The edge sharpens into a knife.

I add a fourth finger, stretching myself open until it burns sweet. My hips rock on their own, tiny, terrified thrusts. The cot creaks like it’s begging me to stop. I shove the corner of the filthy blanket into my mouth to stay quiet.

Knock, knock, knock. Three times, sharp, angry.

I stop dead, hand still inside, heart trying to tear out of my chest. A male voice, low and rough:

“Everything alright in there?”

I should answer. I should say yes, I’m fine, go away. Instead my thumb finds my clit again and rubs once, hard, completely involuntary.

My cunt answers with a greedy, wet pulse that I know carries through the wood. I hate myself and I can’t stop.

“I heard ... noises,” the voice says, closer now, cheek almost pressed to the door, I swear.