Chapter 67 - The Other Side of the Glass

The snap of the dimensional vacuum dissolved the stone floor of the Ash Wastes in a single millisecond.

When the rubber soles of their boots struck solid ground once more, the landing was gentle, cushioned by the dense weave of a two-inch-thick gray wool rug.

The reek of sulfur, soot, and burnt machine grease vanished in a single breath.

The air filling Nicole's lungs was cool, carrying the scent of floor wax, lavender polish, and the clean trace of laundry kept inside an enclosed room. There was no rhythmic thunder of forge hammers or the shrill hiss of pressurized steam conduits. The quiet of the top-floor living room in the Acacias building was broken only by the nearly imperceptible hum of the refrigerator motor in the kitchen.

Maria let go of Dante's arm, crossed the rug in two long strides, and set her forty-eight-pound greatsword onto the thick rubber runner braced against the wall mount.

The metal settled with a dull thud that failed to rattle the glassware inside the curio cabinet.

"Home, sweet home," Maria said, throwing her arms overhead until her shoulder blades popped beneath her black shirt. "No coal dust in the sheets, and no staring at the rafters wondering if an iron spider is dropping down a pipe."

Nicole stood frozen on the exact spot where she had landed.

Her legs were locked rigid, all four amber eyes wide beneath her black-scaled cowl, staring down at the polished planks of tongue-and-groove hardwood glowing in the afternoon light.

She did not take a single step.

She looked across the smooth, painted drywall, bare of cracks, devoid of soot stains, and lacking any copper conduits to ground static Mana. On the main wall, a fifty-inch screen of dark glass rested silent on a brushed aluminum mount, reflecting the silhouettes of the three without flaring with a single magical rune.

"The floor..." Nicole whispered, her voice catching in her parched throat. "...the wood is smooth. There is no gravel."

"It's waxed hardwood, girl," Maria answered with a short chuckle, kicking her heavy leather boots into the corner of the entryway shoe cabinet. "Step on it, don't be shy. No fragmentation mines buried under the rug."

Nicole took a hesitant step forward.

The sole of her leather boot met polished timber. The surface felt solid, immaculate, entirely free of the perpetual vibrations of the First Great Continent that kept shins trembling even in sleep.

She walked slowly toward the center of the room, as if expecting the floor to give way beneath her boots at any moment.

She stopped before the four-seater leather couch.

Extending bare fingertips, she brushed the supple upholstery. The leather yielded under the press of her nails with a soft give she had never felt on any draft lizard saddle or tavern bench.

She eased onto the edge of the cushion.

Her frame sank two inches into the dense foam, cradling her hips and back without the hard bite of stone or cast iron.

Nicole's eyes widened even further.

She ran both hands over the side cushions, taking in the smooth grain of the cured hide, exhaling slowly through parted lips where her chitin mandibles twitched in sheer sensory disbelief.

"Is this... a bed meant for sitting?" she asked, glancing toward Dante at the kitchen counter.

Dante had hung his duster on the brass coat rack by the entrance and was already barefoot, pouring cold water into a glass pitcher straight from the activated charcoal filter on the tap.

For Dante and Maria, this apartment was merely a functional, clean, and secure redoubt.

They had spent their formative years in this human world, and the memory of that suburb brought no golden nostalgia. For Dante, Earth had always been the cage where he was forced to spend ten years trapped inside a frail vessel with four Strength, surrounded by parents who cared little whether he drew breath so long as the electric bill was paid. For Maria, this world held the memory of a mother weeping over an old sewing machine and a brother sleeping through afternoons before a droning television.

Earth was flat, bureaucratic, and bound by mundane ceilings to anyone whose soul sought the ascent of power.

Yet to Nicole, who had spent the last four years sleeping over acid pipes in the sewers of Canal Five and gnawing on raw potato peels from foundry trash heaps, this three-bedroom penthouse was a palace defying every concept of reality she had built upon the ashes of Hell.

Maria walked into the kitchen, pulled open the brushed-steel door of the refrigerator, and retrieved two two-liter bottles of chilled guaraná soda saved from their last downtime run.

The refrigerator's compressor clicked softly, and the interior white LED lamp flared to life instantly.

Nicole jumped on the sofa, her hand dropping on reflex toward the dagger at her hip as light erupted on its own inside the metal box.

"Easy, huntress," Maria laughed, setting the soda bottles and three glass tumblers on the coffee table. "The box doesn't bite. It's an electric fridge that keeps food cold without mineral ice stones."

Dante carried the water pitcher over and took the armchair opposite her, resting his forearms on his knees.

"We are heading down to the street shortly to pick up fresh groceries and visit the pharmacy," Dante said, his tone practical and calm as always. "You cannot walk past the lobby dressed like that, Nicole."

Nicole looked down at her black-scaled lizard coat and the twin straight daggers strapped to her belt.

"Do I need to leave my blades behind?"

"You need to shed everything that advertises you crawled out of another plane," Maria said, rising from the sofa and gesturing toward the hallway. "Come with me to my room. We are putting together a disguise that won't give the neighborhood doormen a second thought."

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......

Forty minutes later, the door to the master bedroom swung open.

Maria stepped out first, wearing ordinary jeans, black running shoes, and a loose gray hoodie that softened the broad expanse of her shoulders.

Nicole followed close behind, and Dante had to blink twice to recognize the trench huntress who had cleaved lead worms in the aqueduct.

Maria had executed a seamless civilian refit.

Nicole wore high-waisted black jeans that had belonged to Maria at fifteen, cinched with an ordinary leather belt, paired with a gray long-sleeved shirt beneath an oversized black zip-up hoodie.

Across her head, a thick black knit beanie was pulled low, covering her forehead down to the line of her lashes, burying the two rounded horn buds and pointed ears beneath the ribbed knit.

Over her mouth and chin, masking her chitin mandibles and the healed split along her lip, sat a simple black cotton face mask, the sort students wore on bad flu days.

Over her four dark, multifaceted eyes rested a pair of polarized black sunglasses Dante had pulled from his desk drawer.

Her long daggers and repeating crossbow were locked inside the iron chest in the guest bedroom.

Nicole paused before the hallway mirror, tilting her head as she studied her reflection.

She looked like an ordinary eighteen-year-old girl from an upscale school across town, dressed in understated urban streetwear. No one on the sidewalk would suspect that beneath that knit cap sat bone spurs, or that behind those dark lenses her vertical pupils were narrowing against the light.

"Turned out perfect," Maria patted her on the back. "Nobody is looking twice at you on this block."

Nicole brushed the soft cotton fleece of the hoodie with bare fingers, feeling the strange absence of iron at her waist.

"I feel... disarmed," she murmured behind the cloth mask, her voice muffled.

"That is the luxury of this world, Nicole," Dante said, rising from his chair, grabbing his leather wallet filled with bank cards and clean bills. "People walk down these sidewalks without having to strap six pounds of steel to their ribs just to buy bread."

They left the apartment, deadbolting the heavy timber door with the cross-key lock.

The descent in the elevator was Nicole's first true trial of nerves.

As the mirrored steel box dropped twelve stories on silent traction cables, the girl dug her nails into her hoodie pockets, her knees locked rigid anticipating a mechanical freefall.

Dante kept a casual hand on the brass railing beside her, speaking in a low murmur to explain counterweights and emergency electromagnetic brakes until the glass lobby doors parted over polished granite.

The afternoon doorman, an elderly man in a navy service cap reading the sports section behind the glass console, lifted a hand in an easy greeting to Dante and Maria.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dante. Miss Maria."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Antônio," Dante replied with a polite nod, passing through the electronic turnstile with their resident key fobs.

Nicole walked alongside Maria, head down, keeping her boots steady against the stone sidewalk outside the building.

The four o'clock sun filtered through the canopy of trees lining the avenue of the Acacias district.

The air was clean, carrying mild warmth, completely free of sulfur haze or industrial exhaust obscuring the skyline.

Nicole stopped on the pavement before the building's iron gate, her eyes behind the dark lenses sweeping in every direction.

She watched a woman in a floral sundress pushing a four-wheeled stroller across the crosswalk, carrying no sidearm, never looking over her shoulder for an ambush.

She watched two teenagers riding bicycles over smooth asphalt, laughing as they banked around the curb, wearing no leather armor over their knees.

She watched a white pickup cruise down the avenue at an even speed, its gasoline engine purring softly, halting before a painted crosswalk line when an overhead signal shifted from green to red.

No one was shouting.

No one was sprinting for cover from Legion rifle volleys, and no one looked at passing pedestrians with the starved desperation of someone hunting scrap for rations.

"They... they walk so slowly," Nicole whispered behind her black mask, her hand bunching the fabric of her hoodie over her stomach. "Nobody is armed, Dante. Nobody is watching the roofs for drops."

"There are no drops, Nicole," Maria said beside her, matching the lazy rhythm of the street. "Around here the worst hazard is catching your toe on an exposed root and skinning your knee on the curb."

They walked two blocks down the shaded avenue until reaching the corner of Acacias Bakery and Confectionery.

The bakery was broad and open, with round light-wood tables arranged on the sidewalk beneath green canvas awnings, fronted by double-paned display windows showing off chilled cases packed with fruit tarts, layered cakes, and wicker baskets piled with artisan rolls baked in gas ovens.

The aroma of freshly ground espresso, piping-hot cheese bread, and butter melting over a flat-top grill met Nicole's senses the second they cleared the automatic sliding glass doors.

The huntress froze in the center of the tiled floor, staring at the self-service warming station.

Dozens of golden pães de queijo, glistening with the rich grease of cured cheese, rested in open stainless-steel steam trays waiting for anyone to pick them up with serving tongs.

No one guarded the food with hounds. No one demanded a quartermaster chit before releasing a roll.

Maria grabbed a red plastic tray, took the metal tongs, and loaded a bowl with ten large cheese breads still steaming from the oven, accompanied by three tall glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and two wide slices of carrot cake coated in thick brigadeiro chocolate glaze.

Dante tapped his debit card against the terminal at the register, and the three took a corner table along the outdoor sidewalk terrace.

Nicole sat with her back to the street, keeping her hood pulled snug and her sunglasses in place.

With trembling fingers, she slid the black cloth mask down under her chin, baring her small chitin mandibles and the healed line of her lip.

She looked at the golden roll steaming on the plate before her.

Picking up the bread with bare fingertips, she felt the crisp crust yield gently under her touch, parting to reveal the chewy, warm interior of melted cheese.

She brought it to her lips, taking a small, careful bite.

The flavor of warm cheese, rich butter, and baked cassava starch erupted across her palate in a way she had never experienced in all eighteen years of her existence.

Her four multifaceted eyes behind the dark lenses watered with a sudden brilliance she could not contain.

The small mandibles beneath her lip clicked twice in an involuntary twitch of pure biological delight, and she took a second, far larger bite, swallowing half the roll in one go as a single silent tear slipped down her pale cheek to wet the cloth mask gathered at her chin.

Maria took a long pull from her orange juice, watching the girl eat with a broad, welcoming smile full of that rugged tenderness that only someone who had truly starved could ever understand.

"Told you, girl," Maria said softly, resting her back against the wicker chair. "That infernal peccary shank tastes like burnt tires next to this."

Nicole answered with no words.

She merely reached for a second cheese bread with her right hand, chewing slowly as she watched the green leaves of the trees sway beneath Earth's blue sky, utterly certain that crossing every iron desert in the universe was worth it to ensure a world like this remained unbroken.