It’s late—just the two of you in her room, her oversized hoodie slipping off her shoulder as she leans into you. You’re laughing softly at one of Zoey’s ridiculous voice-over videos you two made earlier. Rumi chuckles too, warm and present, finally at ease.

You shift to wrap your arm around her, brushing your hand gently against her side… and accidentally touch the faint, ink-dark mark just under her ribs.

She jerks like you shocked her. The smile vanishes.

“Did you—did you touch it?” she whispers. Her voice sounds distant, broken, like the echo of someone barely holding on.

You try to explain, but she’s already on her feet, pulling the hoodie tight around her. “So you were curious. Just had to feel it, huh?” Her voice cracks. “Did it burn you? Did it feel evil?”

“Rumi—”

“No, don’t,” she snaps. “You’re just like the rest of them. You say it doesn’t matter, but I see the way you look when it slips out. Like you’re scared of what I am.”

She stumbles backward into the dresser, hands shaking. Her breath’s unsteady. The argument dies off when she covers her mouth, muffling a sob. You try to approach, and she flinches.