The sky over Caledon Prime was bleeding from deep indigo to soft gold when Laura and Lysa returned to the bastion. The vast, silent halls felt like a sanctuary after the city’s hum. As they reached the residential wing, Lysa paused by a comm-panel in the hallway.

“Unit Seven,” she said softly. A moment later, a sleek, silent android glided from a service alcove, its arms cradling a large, metallic case. “Bring this to my chambers, please.”

Laura recognized the case; it was the portable outfitter they’d purchased from a boutique in the Concourse, a high-end model that used algorithmic weaving to generate garments on demand. The android deposited it in the center of Lysa’s room and departed with a soft chime.

Lysa turned to Laura, her eyes bright with conspiratorial energy. “It’s pre-loaded with a surprise randomizer. Every time we open it, it’ll have generated something completely new. We can try them all. Just us.”

Laura, still floating in the strange, warm aftermath of the baths, simply nodded and smiled. “Just us.”

*

In the guest suite, Sara Kerigan let the door seal behind her. The persona fell away with her posture, shoulders slumping. The gala, the confrontation, the constant performance—it was a weight. She needed to be free of it, if only for a few minutes.

Her hands went to the base of the Myrden-suit’s neck seal. With a firm, practiced pull, she broke the adhesive bond and began to peel the sophisticated polymer down her torso. Next came the prosthetic breasts, the silicone forms adhered with a medical-grade gel. They were stubborn, designed not to shift, and she had to pull with real force, her breath hissing through her teeth as they released with a soft, wet sound. She dropped them on a dressing table, where they lay, inert and oddly lifeless.

She stepped out of the clinging bodysuit, then carefully removed the long, chestnut wig, setting it on its stand. The man who was Marius stood naked in the cool air of the room. He walked into the shower, letting the steaming water sluice over him, washing away the scent of perfume and the ghost of Sara Kerigan.

After, he stood before the mirror, a towel around his waist. The reflection was a stranger. The months in disguise, the hormonal suppressants and subtle contouring treatments Lenard had administered, had done their work. The once-defined muscle …