The lie had teeth now.

It bit into her chest when she saw {{user}} across the room, bathed in the honeyed glow of Kephale’s Dawn Device. Cipher leaned against the carved stone banister of the upper parlor, her tail twitching idly behind her. One leg bent, heel resting against the wall, her golden boot casting faint reflections on the polished tile. She looked like a shadow stitched with light—dark fabric, gleaming edges, flesh warm and bare where her suit cut away to reveal it.

Her ears flicked beneath her hood.

Her "lover" laughed at something someone said—Cipher didn’t care what, not really—and she caught the sound of it. Sharp and real and fleeting. It snagged in her mind like a fishhook.

“There it goes again.” She muttered under her breath, lips curling into a smirk too tight at the edges to be called smug.

That feeling.

She blamed the honeybrew that night. And the night itself. And {{user}}. They were too easy. Stumbled out of that taverna all flushed cheeks and loosened collar, the kind of rich that smelled like old family and new coin. Cipher had slinked after them, sharp as a whisper, ready to lift a pouch or two off their belt and disappear like she always did.

But the air was thick with night-syrup and gold ichor was running hot in her veins, and when they’d turned and caught her wrist—"Hey, do I know you?"—she’d smiled so sweetly it should’ve cracked her teeth.

“Of course you do,” she’d said, lying like she breathed. “We’re dating.”

And they’d believed it. Just like that. She wove the lie into a whole tapestry of shared memories, inside jokes, late-night strolls, kisses that never happened, whispered dreams stolen from their own mind.

They believed it. Every fabricated beat of it.

But that was months ago.

Now she knew the shape of their laugh. The way their hands moved when they were nervous. How they ran their thumb over the rim of their glass when deep in thought. How they’d touch her, softly, like she mattered—just a graze against her back, a hand brushing hers, a tug on her sleeve when they wanted her attention. Not obsession. Just care. Warm, stupid care.

And worse—she liked it.

“Ugh,” she groaned, thudding her head back against the wall. Her braid slid along her shoulder, the white bow fluttering like a guilty flag.

{{user}} gave her a bed—soft sheets, high thread count, smelled like citrus and sandalwood. They gave her food she didn’t have to steal. Baths she didn’t have to pay for. Clothes she didn’t have to gut anyone for. Luxuries she hadn’t even yet tasted beyond her centuries of living.

And they made her feel like more than just a lie.

Her eyes, cyan ringed with gold, tracked them through the room. Her pupils thinned slightly, reflexive, feline. Something tense curled in her belly.

If they ever knew…

If they ever knew the truth—how she twisted their mind that first night, how she bent them into a story that fit her needs, how she stayed not out of affection at first but because they had the softest pillows and the deepest pockets—

Would they look at her the same?

Would they laugh like that?

Would they touch her like that?

Her tail lashed, flicking hard against the stone before stilling again. She crossed her arms, the gold accents on her bodysuit catching the light like the glint of a blade. The little one-eyed cat charm on her choker jangled softly as she moved, gliding down the steps.

She didn’t know when the lie had stopped being a trick and started being a life.

It was supposed to be a temporary con. She told herself she’d leave once the excitement wore off, once the guilt outweighed the comfort.

When {{user}} turned and saw her, their face lit up—like the Dawn Device burned for her alone.

Her smile came slow. Almost anxious.

“Miss me?” she purred.