CHAPTER TWENTY

Riley steps off the bus with the rest of the crowd, moving with them rather than ahead or behind. The pavement is busier here than it had been near her street, people crossing in steady lines, conversations overlapping just enough to blur into a constant background hum. The air feels different in town, less still, carrying the warmth of bodies and movement instead of the quiet cold she’d left behind.

She doesn’t stop straight away.

Lets herself be carried a few steps forward before easing off to the side, giving the others space to pass around her. A couple of them glance at her as they go—quick looks, nothing held long enough to mean anything—before folding back into their own routines.

Above the street, set into the face of a towering building, a jumbotron flickers to life.

It shifts from a muted placeholder into motion, brightness adjusting as the image sharpens. Clean visuals. Soft colours. Familiar branding. The kind of advert that’s designed not to interrupt, just to settle into the space like it belongs there.

A woman appears on screen, mid-conversation with someone just out of frame. She’s smiling, relaxed, the kind of expression that feels easy to mirror.

“—it’s easy to lose track of time,” she says, tone light, conversational. “Especially when you’re making the most of it.”

The shot changes.

A table laid out with food. Friends gathered close. Laughter that doesn’t quite reach the street but is easy enough to imagine.

Then a soft transition.

The same woman, standing outside a Processing Centre. Calm. Composed. No tension in the way she holds herself.

“It doesn’t have to be stressful,” she continues. “Just plan ahead.”

Text fades in beside her.

Two days remaining.

The number lingers for a moment before shifting.

Report before Monday, 12:00.

The voice softens slightly, just enough to feel more direct.

“Give yourself the time you need. And give the people around you time to say goodbye.”

Another cut.

A family this time. Close. Comfortable. No one crying. Just hands resting against shoulders, quiet smiles, the kind that hold steady.

“Don’t leave it to the last minute.”

The screen dims slightly as the final line appears.

Report early. Don’t be late.

The logo settles in beneath it, clean and unobtrusive.

Then the screen fades back to neutral.

Riley watches it for a second longer, even after it’s finished.

Two days.

She already knew that.

Still does.

The number sits differently when it’s said out loud, even like that. Soft. Casual. Like it’s just another thing to plan around.

She shifts her weight slightly, the movement small and unthinking, the noise of the street filling back in around her as the moment passes.

Then she turns and starts walking.

Riley lets herself drift with the movement of the street, not heading anywhere in particular at first, just following the natural flow of people through the town centre. Shops open out on either side of her, windows dressed carefully, displays arranged to catch attention without demanding it.

The pavement is warmer here, holding onto the heat from the buildings and the steady press of bodies passing through. It softens the sharper edge of the morning cold, though the air still moves across her in light currents whenever the street opens up.

She passes a bakery first.

The smell reaches her before the window does—warm, sweet, dense with sugar and something buttery underneath it. Inside, trays are stacked behind the glass, pastries arranged in neat rows. A sign near the counter notes which items are available to Animals, marked clearly, no need to ask.

She pauses just long enough to look.

Then keeps moving.

A bookstore sits a little further down.

Quieter. Dimmer inside. The kind of place that holds onto its own atmosphere even with the door open. She lingers there a second longer, glancing over the displays set near the entrance—new releases, staff picks, a small section labelled “Recommended Reading”—before stepping back out into the noise of the street again.

The shift between spaces is noticeable.

Inside → contained.
Outside → constant.

She adjusts without thinking.

Further along, something catches her attention before she fully registers what it is.

A bench set slightly back from the main path.

Two Animals there.

They’re fucking.

A young woman rides what could be a teenage boy, both of them are red. They catch her looking, the woman smiles, beckoning her over with a finger. Riley blushes and almost steps towards them before shaking her head, waving, and continuing to walk. No one stops. No one intervenes. People pass by with the same casual rhythm they’ve had everywhere else.

A gift shop draws her in next.

Small things. Personal things. Shelves lined with items meant to be picked up, turned over, considered. Bracelets, keychains, small framed prints. The kind of place where people take their time.

She moves more slowly here.

Lets her fingers brush lightly over the displays without stopping on anything in particular. The surfaces feel different from one item to the next—smooth metal, soft fabric, polished wood—small variations that stand out more when there’s nothing between her and them.

She pauses at a bracelet.

Simple. Clean. Something Amanda would like.

She looks at it for a moment longer than the others.

Then steps away.

Outside again, the street opens wider.

A family moves toward her from the opposite direction.

All three of them are naked and marked red.

The parents walk on either side of a boy a little younger than Lottery age.

It takes her a second to place it.
One of them must have converted first. The other followed.
They’d volunteered their son along with them.

Each adult holds one of his hands. He swings slightly between them as they move, feet lifting just a little too high with each step, like he’s trying to match their pace but hasn’t quite figured it out yet.

They’re talking to him.
Nothing serious. Just light conversation, the kind that fills space easily.

Riley watches them as they pass.

The boy glances at her briefly, curious more than anything else. He offers a small, uncertain smile.

Riley smiles back, lifting her hand in a small wave.

The boy hesitates, then shifts closer to his mother, slipping partly behind her legs, his hands settling against her hips as he looks back at Riley from the side.

The mother notices Riley and offers her a small, knowing smile.

Little kids.

Then they keep walking.

Riley turns back to the street and continues on as well.

She passes more shops.

A second bakery. A small clothing store with a sign in the window—NO ANIMALS ALLOWED.
Another café further ahead, larger than the one she’d visited before, busier, tables spilling out toward the pavement.

She notes it without stopping.

Maybe later.

The noise of the street continues around her, steady and constant. People moving. Talking. Existing within it all without friction.

Riley moves through it the same way now.

Not separate from it.

Not resisting it.

Just another part of the flow.

As the morning settles into something steadier, Riley finds herself looping back.

Not deliberately at first.

Just a slow drift through the same streets until the places she’d paused at earlier begin to reappear—familiar now in a way they hadn’t been before.

She stops outside the bakery again.

The smell is the same. Warm. Sweet. Heavier now that the day has picked up, more trays filled, more people moving in and out through the door.

She steps inside.

The heat hits her immediately, thicker than outside, carrying with it the scent of sugar and pastry and something just beginning to caramelise. The space is busy but not crowded, a steady line moving toward the counter.

She joins it without thinking.

When it’s her turn, she gestures lightly toward the display.

“A selection,” she says. “Just… a mix.”

The woman behind the counter nods, already reaching for a box.

“Family?” she asks.

Riley pauses for half a second.

“Yeah.”

The box fills quickly. Croissants. A couple of danishes. Something with fruit she doesn’t recognise but picks anyway. The woman closes it neatly, then hesitates for a moment before reaching back into the display.

She adds another pastry.

Not from the section marked for Animals.

Riley notices.

The woman meets her eyes briefly as she folds the bag closed.

“Good luck,” she says.

It’s said lightly. Not heavy. Not pitying.

Just… direct.

Riley nods once.

“Thanks.”

She takes the bag and steps back out into the street.

The air feels cooler after the heat inside. It brushes over her again, catching along her arms and shoulders, slipping past her without resistance.

She reaches into the bag as she walks.

Finds the extra pastry.

A pecan plait.

She takes a bite without stopping, the texture soft and layered, sweetness cutting through cleanly. It’s richer than what she’s been given before, the difference subtle but noticeable.

She finishes half of it before she realises she’s doing it.

Slows slightly.

Then keeps walking.

The gift shop is where she’d left it.

Quiet. Slower than the rest of the street. The same displays arranged carefully, untouched in the time she’s been gone.

She steps inside again.

This time she doesn’t browse.

Moves directly to the bracelet.

It’s still there.

Simple. Clean. Not too much. Something Amanda would wear without thinking about it too hard. Something that would stay.

Riley picks it up, turning it once between her fingers.

Then carries it to the counter.

The woman there takes it, scans it, and names the price without looking up.

Riley reaches into her pouch.

Counts it out.

Stops.

There’s not enough.

She already knows that before she finishes checking, but she goes through the motion anyway, fingertips brushing over what’s left like it might change something.

It doesn’t.

“I don’t have enough,” she says.

The woman glances up at that, finally giving her full attention.

Riley hesitates for a second, then adds, quieter, more uncertain:

“But maybe I could pay for the rest in another way?”

There’s a small pause.

The woman’s mouth tilts slightly at the corner.

“And what makes you think I’m into girls?”

The words land cleanly.

Riley flinches before she can stop it.

It’s quick. Small. But there.

A reminder.

Animals might not need to think about that anymore.

Humans still do.

She looks down briefly, the bracelet still resting on the counter between them.

Then the woman laughs.

Short. Not unkind.

“Relax,” she says. “I’m kidding.”

Another pause, just long enough to shift the tone.

“Fine,” she adds, voice dropping slightly, more casual now. “We can work something out.”

Riley doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just waits.

The woman leans forward a fraction, lowering her voice just enough to keep it between them.

“How old are you, Meatgirl?”

“Twelve,” she says.

“Good enough, you still want that discount?”

Riley exhales slowly through her nose.

A small shift.

Then a nod.

The woman has Riley come around the counter. “Under there,” she indicates to a cubby under the cash register. A baseball bat shares the space with her but she’s small enough to fit anyway. “I’m not wasting a good break on this, you can lick my cunt while I work.”

Riley blushes at her language. It’s possessive in a way she doesn’t really hate.

“I’ve never done this to a woman,” she admits, “Sorry if I-”

“Shush, just start.”

Riley feels her stomach clench at the harshness of her tone but it also reignites the fire that the cold outside had extinguished. She presses her thighs together, chasing a small amount of pleasure as she leans forward and runs her tongue along the woman’s slit.

The girl’s tongue was too tentative—too hesitant—like she was afraid of ruining something sacred. The woman sighed, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as she rolled her hips forward, pressing herself harder against Riley’s mouth.

"Less thinking," she muttered, voice rough with impatience. Riley flinched but obeyed, parting her lips wider, letting the taste bloom across her tongue—musky, sharp, alive.

The woman’s thighs trembled against her ears, a silent approval.

Riley’s hands fumbled at her sides before gripping the woman’s calves, anchoring herself as she lapped deeper, slower this time, mimicking the rhythm the woman’s body demanded.

A low, approving hum vibrated above her, followed by the click of the register opening, coins clattering as the woman counted change for an unseen customer.

The dissonance—business and pleasure, casual and intimate—made Riley’s pulse skip.

The woman’s free hand tangled in Riley’s hair, not guiding, just owning. "That’s it," she murmured, half to herself.

Riley’s cheeks burned, her own need coiling tighter with every swipe of her tongue, every stifled noise the woman let slip. The scent of her, the heat—it was overwhelming in the best way.

Then, abruptly, the woman shifted, pulling back just enough to glance down. Her thumb smeared wetness across Riley’s bottom lip. "Not bad for your first time," she conceded, voice dripping with something like amusement.

Riley swallowed, tasting her again. The woman’s grin widened. "Now," she said, tapping Riley’s chin with two fingers, "let’s see if you can finish what you started."

Riley didn’t hesitate this time. She pressed in, nose brushing coarse curls, and focused on the swollen bud she’d been avoiding before—circling it slow, then faster when the woman’s breath hitched.

The register drawer slammed shut somewhere above her. A choked-off sound followed, half-groan, half-laugh, as the woman’s hips jerked forward. "Fuck," she muttered, fingers tightening in Riley’s hair.

The orgasm built quietly—no theatrics, just a gradual tightening, a tremor in the woman’s thighs that Riley felt against her shoulders. Then, all at once, the woman went rigid. A sharp inhale. Her grip on Riley’s hair turned punishing, holding her in place as warmth spilled over her tongue. The taste was sharper now, almost bitter, and Riley drank it down greedily, her own body throbbing in response.

The woman exhaled, long and slow, her grip loosening. She patted Riley’s cheek absently, like she was a well-trained pet.

The bracelet is already boxed by the time Riley steps back around the counter. The woman sets it in front of her, expression settled back into something neutral, transactional again.

“Not bad, Meatgirl,” she says, almost idly. “I’ll let you have it for half price.”

Riley nods.

Takes the box.

Doesn’t linger.

Outside, the air feels cooler again.

Cleaner.

She adjusts the bag in one hand and slips the bracelet into her pouch with the other, the movement easy, unthinking.

There’s no rush in her steps as she starts walking.

No hesitation either.

Just the steady rhythm of the street picking back up around her as if nothing had paused at all.

And this time, she moves with it a little more easily than before.