CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Day three came without fanfare.

Last night she had showered, and, as promised, the treacle sheen her skin had carried all day finally washed away. It slid off her in slow, syrupy ribbons under the heat, clinging stubbornly at first before giving in, leaving her skin clean in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. But the lingering smell of honey BBQ hadn’t gone with it.

It clung.

Not strong enough to choke on, not sharp enough to make her gag, but constant. Present. Every breath carried a trace of it, sweet and savoury in a way that didn’t belong on skin. It settled at the back of her throat, faint but inescapable, turning something as automatic as breathing into something she noticed every single time.

Every small movement seemed to stir it.

When she shifted, when she stretched, when her arms brushed against her sides, it lifted again like heat off cooked meat, subtle but undeniable. It wasn’t overpowering. That almost made it worse. If it had been stronger, she could have reacted to it—complained, gagged, done something. Instead it just lingered, quiet and persistent, impossible to ignore once she started paying attention.

She wondered if she’d already started going nose blind to it.

The thought sat there for a moment, heavier than it should have been.

Because if this was what she could still notice, then what had already faded into the background without her realizing?

The morning passed quickly.

Riley spent most of it on her phone, scrolling through page after page, trying to pin down what a “Companion Animal” actually was. The more she read, the stranger it became—not confusing, not unclear, just… off, in a way that felt too polished to question out loud.

Instead of being Processed like a normal Animal, Companion Animals were selected, trained, and placed. The language never said sold. It avoided that word carefully, replacing it with softer ones—assigned, matched, gifted. But the meaning didn’t really change.

They were given to people.

Not randomly, either. There were requirements. Applications. Screenings. Whole sections about suitability and lifestyle compatibility, like it was some kind of long-term investment instead of a person being moved from one life into another.

What struck her most wasn’t the system itself. It was how ordinary everything sounded.

Profiles talked about temperament, adaptability, presentation. What environments certain Animals were best suited for. Which ones responded well to structure. Which ones were “better with attention” or “suited to quiet households.” It read like something halfway between a job listing and a catalogue, clinical without ever sounding cold.

There were even images.

Not graphic, not uncomfortable—just carefully staged photos of smiling people standing beside Animals who stood a little too still, a little too aware of the camera. Clean spaces. Soft lighting. Everything arranged to look calm, controlled, right.

Riley scrolled past one slowly, her thumb dragging just enough that it lingered longer than the others.

A girl around her age stood beside an older couple, her posture straight, her expression neutral but not unhappy. One of them had a hand resting lightly on her shoulder, the gesture casual enough that it might have passed for normal anywhere else.

The caption talked about “successful placement” and “long-term compatibility.”

Riley stared at it for a second longer than she meant to before scrolling again.

The idea settled into her head in pieces rather than all at once.

Not Processing.

Not meat.

Something else.

Still not a person. That part didn’t change. The language made that very clear. Companion Animals were still Animals. Still part of the system. Just… redirected.

Preserved differently.

Her thumb slowed as she reached another section, this one outlining training periods. Adjustment protocols. Behavioural conditioning. It was all written in the same steady tone, the same calm reassurance that everything worked the way it was supposed to.

That this was a good outcome.

A preferable one.

Riley leaned back slightly, the phone resting loosely in her hand while the words sat in her head, rearranging themselves into something she couldn’t quite name yet.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t relief either.

Just a shift.

Small, quiet, but noticeable.

Because for the first time since her watch turned red, the end of the week didn’t feel like a single fixed point anymore.

When the afternoon arrived, she decided she had been cooped up too long.

The house had started to feel smaller the longer she stayed in it, like the walls were pressing in without actually moving. There was only so much pacing she could do, only so many times she could check her phone, reread the same things, circle the same thoughts without them changing.

She wasn’t ready to go anywhere far.

The idea of buses, crowds, open spaces filled with people who didn’t know her—who would only see what the watch said she was now—sat somewhere just out of reach, something she wasn’t quite willing to step into yet.

So she kept it simple.

The café.

The same one that had taken care of her the day she turned red. Close enough to feel manageable. Familiar enough that it didn’t feel like stepping into something completely unknown.

That made it easier to leave.

The walk outside wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.

The air felt cooler than it had the day before, or maybe she was just more aware of it now. It moved over her skin without resistance, nothing between it and her anymore, a constant presence she couldn’t quite tune out but didn’t fight as hard either.

Mr. Greern was nowhere to be seen.

That helped.

The empty porch felt like a small mercy, even if she knew it didn’t actually change anything. The memory of him sitting there, coffee in hand, watching without pretending not to, lingered anyway. Still, not having him there made the first few steps easier.

She kept walking.

Each passing car pulled her attention immediately, the sound of tires against the road sharper than it should have been. Her body reacted before she could think about it, the instinct still there, still stubborn.

Her arm twitched, wanting to rise.
Her hand shifted slightly at her side.

The urge to cover herself came fast and automatic, a reflex that hadn’t fully caught up with everything else yet. Press an arm across her chest. Turn slightly. Make herself smaller. Hide what she could.

She didn’t.

Not this time.

The first car passed, then another. Each one brought that same flicker of instinct, that same brief tension in her shoulders, but she forced it down before it could turn into movement. Letting it happen would have been easier. More natural.

But it also would have been wrong.

That part had been drilled in too clearly to ignore.

Animals don’t wear clothes.
Animals don’t need modesty.

The thought didn’t feel comforting.

It didn’t feel upsetting either.

It just… sat there, solid and unarguable, the same way everything else had started to feel since the watch changed.

So she kept her arms at her sides and kept walking, even as the last traces of that instinct lingered, slower to fade each time it surfaced.

The warm air of the café wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside, a quiet contrast to the autumn chill she’d just walked through. It settled over her skin immediately, soft and enclosing, pulling the tension out of her shoulders without asking.

Her body reacted before she thought about it.

The cold had left its mark, her skin still sensitive from the walk, her nipples tightened against the lingering cool that hadn’t quite faded yet. It felt obvious to her, noticeable in a way she couldn’t ignore now that she was standing under proper light instead of the muted grey outside.

For a moment, it was just physical. Simple. Understandable.

Then she became aware of the room.

Of people.

Of eyes.

Not all of them. Not constant. But enough.

The shift was immediate, that same familiar awareness settling low in her body, quiet at first but persistent. It wasn’t sharp or overwhelming, just there, building slowly the longer she stood in it, the longer she let herself notice the way attention moved around her, touched her, lingered and then moved on again like it was allowed to.

Like it was normal.

Riley exhaled slowly through her nose and adjusted the strap of the pouch on her shoulder, grounding herself in the small, controlled movement.

It wasn’t new.

Just clearer now.

“Hey, you came back!”

The barista from before stepped out from behind the counter as soon as he spotted her, closing the distance without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around her like it was the most natural thing in the world, warm and familiar in a way that suggested he’d already decided what she was to him.

Like she’d been here longer than she had.

Riley stiffened for half a second before settling into it, her arms hovering awkwardly at her sides before she let them rest lightly against him. The contact wasn’t unwelcome. Just… assumed.

His hands didn’t stay where they started.

They drifted lower as the hug lingered, settling with a casual certainty that made it clear he wasn’t thinking about it too hard. The squeeze wasn’t rough, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that he could, that it was allowed, that there wasn’t really a line there anymore.

Heat rushed into her face almost immediately.

It spread fast, rising up her neck and into her cheeks before she could stop it, the reaction automatic even as her body stayed where it was. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t protest. The moment just… happened around her.

She wasn’t offended.

She wasn’t scared.

People touched Animals all the time.

That was normal.

The thought came as easily as breathing, settling into place without resistance even as the warmth in her face lingered, stubborn and hard to ignore.

“Hi,” she said, her voice catching slightly, the word thinner than she intended. “Um… can I get a deluxe hot chocolate and a slice of that cake again?”

The barista didn’t step back straight away. His hands lingered for a moment longer before he let her go, like he was finishing a thought rather than ending a hug. Then he smiled, easy and practiced, already turning back toward the counter.

“Of course,” he said. “You’ll just need to pay the upgrade price.”

Riley nodded quickly, the motion a little sharper than necessary, and reached for the pouch at her hip. The fabric shifted against her as she moved, brushing lightly along her side while she fumbled with the flap for a second before pulling it open.

Her fingers found the folded notes inside.

Handling money felt strange now.

Not unfamiliar, not difficult—just slightly out of place, like something she was still allowed to do but wasn’t quite meant to hold onto for much longer. The thought flickered through her mind and passed just as quickly, leaving her focused on the small, practical act of counting out what she needed.

She stepped closer to the counter and held it out.

The barista took it without comment, his fingers brushing hers briefly in a way that didn’t feel accidental. Not deliberate either. Just… casual, like everything else.

Like it didn’t need to mean anything.

“Same table as before?” he asked, already turning toward the machine.

Riley hesitated for half a second, then nodded again.

“Yeah.”

Her voice came out steadier that time.

She moved away from the counter while he started preparing the drink, the soft sounds of the café filling back in around her as if nothing had shifted at all. Conversations continued. Cups clinked. Someone laughed quietly near the window.

It all carried on.

Like her being there didn’t interrupt anything.

Like she fit into it now.

As she waited for her order, a sharp knock tapped against the large glass window beside her.

Riley turned her head.

Amanda stood on the other side, still in her school uniform, blazer slightly crooked like she’d rushed out without fixing it. Her watch flashed green on her wrist, bright and steady, almost obnoxiously normal against everything else.

Relief flickered across Riley’s chest before she could stop it.

Amanda spotted her immediately.

Her face lit up, something open and unfiltered breaking through the glass between them, and then she was gone, already moving, disappearing from view as she hurried around to the door.

It burst open a second later.

Amanda crossed the room in a straight line and threw herself at Riley without slowing down, arms wrapping tight enough to jolt her back in the chair. The impact knocked the breath out of her for a second, the force of it careless in a way that only came from not needing to think about what she was doing.

“I’ve missed you so much!” Amanda said into her ear, her voice pressed close, warm and uneven.

Riley let out a short breath and steadied herself, hands coming up automatically to catch her.

“It’s only been two days,” she said, the words slipping out with a faint edge of disbelief. “If that.”

“Yeah, but…” Amanda pulled back just enough to look at her, her hands still gripping Riley’s arms like she needed to make sure she was still there. “When I decided to come find you, I thought—”

She hesitated, her expression tightening for a fraction of a second.

“I thought you might’ve gone in early,” she finished. “For processing.”

The word sat there between them, quiet but solid.

Riley shook her head slightly.

“Not yet.”

It wasn’t defensive. Just factual.

Amanda exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she leaned in again, not quite as forcefully this time but still close, still holding onto her like letting go too much might change something.

“I’m glad,” she said, softer now.

“You’re the one who set up the sleepover, remember?”

Amanda nodded as she slid into the seat opposite her, smoothing her skirt absentmindedly as she settled. Up close, she looked the same as always—tidy, put together, completely unchanged by the last two days in a way that felt almost jarring now.

“So,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her grin already forming, “how have you been?”

The expression hit Riley immediately.

It was the kind of smile Amanda got when she thought she’d spotted something—something awkward, something worth poking at. Normally it was harmless, the kind of teasing that came with knowing each other too well.

Now it landed differently.

“Did you get a marinade treatment?”

Riley’s mouth pressed into a thin line for a second before she answered.

“Yeah,” she said, flat but not defensive. “Yesterday.”

Amanda’s grin widened just a fraction, her eyes flicking over Riley in a way that lingered a little too long to be completely neutral.

“Thought so,” she said, like she was pleased to have guessed right.

Riley shifted slightly in her chair, not enough to pull away, just enough to break that feeling of being quietly looked over.

“It washes off,” she added after a moment. “Mostly.”

Amanda tilted her head, considering that, her expression softening a little but not losing that underlying curiosity.

“Still smells though, right?”

Riley huffed a small breath through her nose.

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t a complaint.

Just another fact.

Amanda leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping once against the edge of the table as she looked at her again—more openly this time, less like she was trying to hide it.

“Does it feel weird?” she asked.

The question hung there, casual on the surface, but with just enough weight underneath it to make it clear she wasn’t just talking about the smell.

“The marinade, or everything else?”

Amanda huffed a quiet laugh at that, leaning her elbow onto the table as she propped her chin in her hand.

“Not being human, I guess.”

Riley paused.

Not long. Just enough for the words to settle properly before she answered. Her fingers traced idly along the edge of the table, feeling the smooth surface under her nails, something small and grounding while she worked out what to say.

“It’s…” she started, then stopped, her mouth pressing slightly before she tried again. “It’s still not sunk in yet.”

The honesty of it came out flat, unpolished.

Amanda watched her closely, her expression shifting—less teasing now, more intent, like she was trying to catch something in Riley’s face that might not be said out loud.

Riley glanced away for a second, her eyes drifting toward the counter where her drink was being made, the steady rhythm of the machine filling the gap in conversation.

“I know what it means,” she added after a moment, quieter now. “I just… don’t feel different yet.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

Things had changed. Obviously. Constantly.

But the part of her that was supposed to understand it, to really feel it the way everyone said she would—that part lagged behind, slow to catch up, like it hadn’t quite accepted the update yet.

Amanda’s fingers stilled against the table.

“Maybe that’s normal,” she said, though it sounded more like a guess than something she knew for sure.

Riley gave a small shrug, her shoulders lifting and falling.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t argue it.

Didn’t agree either.

It was just… where she was.

Riley let the thought sit for a moment, turning it over slowly.

This was probably why Animals were given seven days.

Not for goodbyes. Not really.

Time to adjust.

Time for it to settle in properly, piece by piece, until there wasn’t anything left to question. The system didn’t rush it. It didn’t need to. It just surrounded you with it until it stopped feeling like something new.

Through touch.
Through words.
Through the quiet, casual ways people started treating her differently without ever making a big deal out of it.

It built.

Slowly.

Steadily.

She could feel it happening now, even if she couldn’t point to a single moment where it had changed. The way she stood. The way she stopped reacting as quickly. The way certain things didn’t feel as shocking as they had two days ago.

It was starting to sink in.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. Just… settling, like something heavy finding its place.

And still—

She didn’t feel like an Animal.

Not yet.

“Have you fucked anyone?” Amanda asked, the question landing abruptly, pulling Riley back into the moment like a hand snapping in front of her face.

Riley let out a short laugh before she could stop it.

It wasn’t amusement. Just reflex.

“No,” she said quickly, the word coming out sharper than she meant it to. “No, I haven’t.”

The defensiveness crept in anyway, tightening her tone just enough to make it obvious.

“Really,” she added, a little more controlled this time, like she was trying to correct herself mid-sentence. “I haven’t.”

Amanda’s eyes stayed on her, searching, weighing the answer in that same way she always did when she thought Riley might be hiding something. The look lingered a second too long before she leaned back slightly in her chair, one brow lifting.

“Okay,” she said, not quite disbelieving, but not entirely convinced either.

Riley shifted in her seat, the movement small but restless, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table again.

It wasn’t even the question itself.

It was how casually it had been asked.

“You should fuck the barista.”

Amanda leaned onto one hand, her gaze drifting past Riley toward the counter where he moved between machines, sleeves rolled, hands busy. “He’s cute.”

Riley followed her gaze before she could stop herself, her eyes catching on him for a second too long before she looked away again, heat already rising in her face.

“He is,” she admitted, quieter now, the words slipping out before she could filter them. “But I always thought my first time would be… special.”

Amanda turned back to her sharply, the reaction immediate.

“Wait,” she said, blinking. “You’re still a virgin?”

Riley frowned slightly, thrown by the tone more than the question.

“Yeah,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Amanda replied quickly, like that part didn’t need explaining. “I’m a human.”

She said it casually.

Easily.

Like it still meant something fixed.

Then her expression shifted, something more curious creeping in.

“But I figured someone like Mr. Greern would’ve made a woman out of you by now.”

Riley’s expression hardened instantly.

“He tried,” she said, flat and without hesitation. “Mrs. Francis shot him.”

Amanda blinked again, the surprise real this time.

“Whoa,” she said, leaning back slightly. “She actually used that relic on her wall?”

Riley gave a small nod.

“Yeah.”

“Badass,” Amanda muttered, shaking her head once before settling again, the moment already passing for her.

Then, just as quickly, she leaned forward again, her tone slipping back into something lighter, almost practical.

“Well, I guess that worked out,” she said. “But you should probably fuck someone before someone decides to fuck you.”

The words landed bluntly, stripped of anything soft.

Not a joke.

Not really advice either.

Just… something obvious, said out loud.

“And it can’t be me, I’m not into girls,” Amanda added, like she was clarifying something obvious, something Riley should have already factored in.

Riley rolled her eyes at that, the reaction automatic, and let her gaze drift back across the room toward the barista.

He moved easily behind the counter, confident in the space, hands working without hesitation. He was in good shape—most people were. Nobody wanted fatty meat, and that showed in ways people didn’t bother hiding anymore. There was a kind of quiet standard to it, visible even in small movements.

He looked like he’d say yes.

That part didn’t seem complicated.

But the thought of actually asking—

That was different.

Something tightened low in her stomach, a nervous flutter that didn’t settle, just shifted and grew the longer she watched him. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. Just unfamiliar. Something she hadn’t had to do before.

“I’ve never asked anyone before,” she said quietly, leaning just enough toward Amanda that the words wouldn’t carry.

Her fingers traced along the edge of the table again, a small, repetitive motion.

“I think I’m okay dying a virgin,” she added after a second, her voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “It might make my meat better?”

The words came out half-serious, half-testing, like she was trying the idea on to see how it felt once it was said out loud.

“Up to you, babe,” Amanda said, easy and unconcerned, like the decision didn’t carry any weight at all.

Riley glanced over again, the movement small, almost hesitant this time.

The barista was already on his way.

He set the cup down in front of her first, the rich smell of chocolate rising with the heat, followed by the plate—cake piled higher than before, thick and deliberate like it had been done on purpose.

“One deluxe hot chocolate,” he said, then nudged the plate a little closer to her, “and an extra thick helping of cake for my favourite Meatgirl.”

The word slid out of him easily.

Familiar now.

His hand came up without hesitation, ruffling her hair the same way someone might greet a pet that had come back to visit. His fingers lingered there for a second too long, not enough to be called out, just enough to be felt.

He was gentle.

That was the thing Riley noticed most.

Even earlier, even when his hands had wandered, there had been a kind of consideration in it. Measured pressure. Controlled. Like he understood what he was doing and chose not to push it further.

Riley’s teeth caught her bottom lip.

The thought came together faster than she expected, pushed forward by Amanda’s presence, by the way the conversation had been leaning, by the way everything else had started to feel like it was moving whether she did anything or not.

She didn’t give herself time to sit with it.

“Do you wanna fuck?” she asked.

Quick.

Blunt.

Out before she could second-guess it.

Amanda’s grin spread immediately, sharp and satisfied, like she’d been waiting for that exact moment.