Pyro

I

Light sears through my eyelids, jerking me from another night of restless sleep. The figure stands perfectly still, arm raised, something long and pointed catching the sudden brightness. My body locks - fight or flight warring with four years of therapy telling me not every shadow hides a killer.

The figure advances with deliberate slowness. I can't make out features, but that smile - wide and wicked - triggers something in my muscle memory. My hand inches toward the knife I keep between the mattress and headboard, even as recognition starts to dawn.

Relief floods me as Sol steps into the light, though my heart still drums against my ribs. "You should've seen your face!"

I groan, throwing my arms over my eyes, trying to slow my pulse. The knife remains untouched, my little secret. Just like Sol doesn't know about the gun in my dresser, or the fact that I've mapped every exit route from this house. Some habits die harder than others.

"For how long were you standing there like a creep?" My voice stays steady - years of practice hiding the lingering edge of panic.

"Not long," he manages between gasps of laughter. "Just came in, opened the blinds. A minute, tops."

I scoff, watching him through narrowed eyes. My brother, the one person who can still catch me off guard. Sometimes I wonder if he does these things to test my reflexes, to make sure I haven't gone soft overnight. Other times I think he's just an ass.

"Right. Sure. What are you even holding? It looked like a knife."

Fresh hysterics overtake him. "A knife? God, no - it's your TV remote." More laughter. "I borrowed it yesterday when mine died. It's the same model." He winks, tossing it onto my bed. "I was just returning it. With a flair of style."

"How about you act like a normal person for once?"

His expression screams mock offence. "Normal? Where's the fun in that? As your brother, I'm contractually obligated to be annoying." He spins on his heel, leaving me to the aftermath of his morning performance.

I push aside thoughts of my brother's flair for drama and start my morning routine. The bathroom mirror reflects shoulder-length black hair that needs taming, teeth that need brushing. A scar at my hairline catches the light - a pretty souvenir from a long time ago, hidden unless you know where to look.

Back in my room, I pull on wide-leg black jeans, a white crop top, and my favourite brown leather jacket. Doc Martens, silver rings, and my mother's pearl necklace complete the look.

Today's mission: convince Abby to hit the mall. My canvas supplies are running low, and I need pants that aren't covered in paint splatters. Normal plans. Normal life. The kind of day where I can pretend I'm just another twenty-four-year-old woman who doesn't check her six every time she leaves the house.

Just another morning playing at normal.

If only I knew how wrong I was. How this would be the last normal morning I'd have for quite a while.

But that's the thing about normal - it dies quickly when you're not looking.

I should know. I've watched it happen before.

The kitchen greets me with another ghost from my past - my father, all crisp suits and cold eyes. "Good morning, Astraea. Where's your brother?"

Astraea - he only uses my full name, like formality might bridge the chasm between us. "Morning, father. Sol was just in my room, but-"

His annoyed exhale cuts me off. "Have maids inform him I need to talk." His eyes find the watch on his left wrist - always checking the time, always running to somewhere. Or from something. "I'll be late tonight."