[ A N D R E A ]

I try to think of any logical options, but no matter what I do, I can't outrun a lycan's supernatural speed. He'll shoot me on the first step. Shifting's too slow to consider, too.

So I lift my chin and give the wolf an even stare, raising my hands. "I'm a shifter too, okay? I'm on your side. Fuck the humans—"

"Forget about her! She's one of us—join Mike inside!" some guy yells from inside the car. I can't see through the tinted windows, figure out who it is, to try and meet his gaze. But I do look at the window, hoping that I'm looking at him.

"No. You know the orders, Dante—it don't matter what they is, we just gotta kill 'em—"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The wolf's gun remains steady. His eyes are honeyed and golden, but his words are anything but. Werewolves can shift on a sliding scale from human to giant wolf, the middle point being a giant, bipedal wolf-person. This person's halfway between wolf-person and person. If the bullets in that gun don't kill me, a few swipes of his claws will. I don't know what options I have.

Do I offer to work with them? Show them a shift? Run?

I can't die here. Not like this, not here. Not my last real conversation being with Charlie.

"Fang! The fuck you doin'? Come on, stunad!" the gunman inside the store—Mike, I figure—says, voice making the ground shudder.

My knees wobble. I stay silent and keep staring at the tinted window, the man inside the car. Please don't let me die.

Fang's gun's is readied. Clawed finger on the trigger. I swallow.

"Fang, drop it. And that's an order."

Fang growls but complies, wordlessly rushing into the café, locking the door behind him. I immediately hear three gunshots and gasp, heart tightening. Okay. I just survived that—now—

"You'd better leave, and fast. If we find out that you called the police on us, you're dead."

The window rolls down, revealing a handsome man, Dante—all sharp edges, shadows. Deep-set, long-lashed eyes, shadow of a beard, jaw cut from stone. There's something angry in his eyes, which are golden, shimmery. Something alive. He watches me intently, chest rising, falling.

Oh G-d.

No. No. He's the man from the dream. The vision. The one who pulled me into that space, and let me lay against him, and—

"You—" I point, taking a step back, eyes narrowing. "You ass, you—"

He rushes out from the car, walking up to me. I square my shoulders, flare my nostrils.

"You remember me." He searches me, looking up and down, tone hushed, distant. Neutral. He's not angry.

"Of course I do! Wait—" I freeze, shaking my head. He saw the vision, too? "What—who—"

"Give me your name."

"Fuck you." I shake my head, looking back. My pepper spray and pocketknife are in my bag. I can't shift, not if this man's a werewolf—which he likely is. "Look. I just need to get my things and go, and I won't bother you, intervene. I'm on your side here."

"Please. Just—"

"Sofia." I lie, quickly. Easily. It's my go-to, when I look like myself. "You get a witch to do a weird, random naked vision thing? Or—"

"No time." he says, voice low. Screams behind. More gunshots. I flinch. "Get your things and go."

I want answers, but I want to live more. So I do just that, movements feverish, shaky. I stick my laptop into my messenger bag and sling it across my arm, not realizing how shaky I am. My arms are covered in patches of fur; no wonder he didn't question if I really am a shifter.

I bite my tongue again, and my mouth fills with iron. My skin tingles; everything recedes. The car's there. More gunshots and screams inside the café. The sound of skin torn apart, slashed. People bang on the windows. Oh G-d—

"Thanks for saving my life." I say to the guy, having a hard time meeting his face. The last time I saw him, he was naked—and so was I.

And now I see him, and he's ordering his men to raid my favorite coffee shop.

"Hey, look at me." he says. His voice is thick, deep—quintessential New Yorker with an elevated smoothness. It's compelling. His golden eyes continue to shimmer. I notice the fangs in his mouth. I find myself moving, looking, automatically.

"You're gonna forget you ever saw my face and heard my voice, my name. The vision, too. Now go."

The man's voice shudders through me. I blink a few times, stagger, watching the tinted window rise.

In my mind, his memory fades. He becomes a phantom, a ghost—just a disembodied voice. The voice inside the car, behind that glass, blurry. The man, standing, a silhouette. The vision, a weird dream, hazy; his face a collection of a thousand faces, many people. I couldn't point him out in a crowd anymore. I feel myself wince, think in, and scrub the memories—

Pain blooms from my skull like a migraine. But it fades, fast.

What was I doing?

Leaving. Right. Right. I take the coffee cup—evidence, potentially—and start running, slipping my bag onto my back, in case someone decides to shoot me from behind. Maybe my laptop will protect me from a bullet's impact.

But he doesn't shoot. He does nothing.

The coffeeshop's screaming fades more and more with each step. At some point, I fling the drink into a trashcan, feeling too jittery and sick to drink. I don't even think of what's going through my head, my mind; it's just feet on the ground, head forward, eyes narrowed. I pull up the hood of my coat and keep running, running, the chilly air cutting deep into my bones.

Once I'm three blocks away, I duck into an alleyway and crouch behind a dumpster and focus, focus. The face of another woman—dark, long-lashed, monolidded eyes, wavy black hair, paler skin, permanently pouty, narrow lips, softer chin, sloped nose, flat brows, slightly leaner and less curvy body—

Sarah. It's this body's fake name—Sarah Chen. This form is similar enough where I can easily slip into it, but it's different enough where nobody can guess who I was.

My body shudders and my skin crawls. I hiss in pain. It's a strange, distant ache—more like numb pressure. It's easiest to become another person. Same organs, same body structure, no magic or abilities or weirdness. Animals are harder.

I lose my footing and slip to the ground, feeling my hair relax, the curls smoothed to gentle waves. My clothes are loose; I adjust them and clear my throat, getting back on my feet. Things are subtly different—skin's smoother, paler, as though I actually remember to lotion; fingernails are longer, not bitten down to stubs. My figure's slimmer, longer; still short, still a bit stocky. I run a hand down my face, making sure that everything is where it should be. Good. Okay. No third nostril or one eye.

I inhale. Exhale. Let my body settle. It takes a few moments for everything to adjust, reset. It's weird, but my changes aren't just physical—they're mental too. Subtle differences that widen, the longer I stay in a form. Different preferences, personality traits, impulses.

Like this, I'm in danger—of course I am. I'm a woman, and even like this, I'm not white. Different dangers in this skin. But there's comfort in not being yourself.

If the werewolves change their mind and decide to kill me, they won't find me. Hopefully. Andrea Gelman left. Sarah Chen is here.

The clothes stay the same, though. I can't change what I'm wearing; only myself. So hopefully they don't remember my ensemble; just my face.

I rake back my hair, leaning against the wall. It's slippery and smooth like this; it's weirdly addicting to feel. I revel in the difference, the newness, for a moment; I swirl a strand of hair around my finger and keep my eyes shut. I survived. That's what matters. I had a run-in with wolves and I survived.

Still—

No. I can't think about it. Not yet, or else I'll break down and cry. I just need to get back home, tell Charlie that I'll get that essay for him, and take a nice, hot shower, and eat some empanadas because dammit, I deserve it after today, and—

A set of black cars zoom through the street. I hear police sirens.

My phone beeps with an alarm:

WARNING: STAY IN-PLACE. STAY INDOORS.

ATTACK AT LUCI'S COFFEE IN HARLEM,

1111100 AMSTERDAM AVENUE NY NY

Have Information? Call SEE: 001

Call the Magic HelpLine: 1-(800)-000-001

Emergency? Contact the NYPD: 911

I need to get moving.

At first, walking is a struggle. There's a different gait with these legs; I wobble, but quickly catch my stride, moving faster. A police car rushes past—I flinch at the light, the siren.

Keep moving.

The subway station's deserted, but the train's still running. That's one thing I love about the city: fantastic public transportation. Even in an attack, it continues here. It rattles and screeches and I wince, close my hands over my ears, but step in, hood over my head, face down. Cameras everywhere.

The train moves. Once we get deep into the tunnel, there is no internet, no phone, nobody around. I stay standing and hold a pole tight, because I always stand in the subway, swaying with the carriage as it continues to move forward. It's weird, to be alone here. I look around. The subway's only this quiet really late. It's eerie, though. I might hate people, but I hate being alone in places where I shouldn't be. Plus, it's anything but peaceful.

We reach my stop. I exit, rush home—on the way out of the subway station, a police officer steps up to me. First thing I notice is the array of weapons strapped to her hips. Magic-blockers, stun guns, iron bullets, silver bullets, wooden stake shooters, semi-automatic rifles. She's tall, wiry; I need to crane my neck to glance up at her. "Miss, there's a stay-in-place order during this attack. Transportation is for emergency use only."

I don't need to deal with this...

"I had an emergency, actually. So that's why I took this train." I explain, awkwardly. I don't let her talk; I just continue. "Thanks, officer—I'm about to head home. It's right down the block, so I, uh, will get going, now..."

She doesn't contest what I'm saying, so I take the opportunity and speedwalk home—up the stairs, down the street, past the bodega and florist and mini-market and barber and restaurants serving fantastic Latin-Caribbean, Central American, Indian, Chinese-American, Soul, Southern, Creole, West African, and Caribbean food. People sit by the windows, chatting with the owners, without a care in the world. The street's not the best-kept, and police are usually posted around, but the people here are great. It's a shame that it's already being lost. A fancy, high-end coffeeshop opened up across from my apartment a month ago. The rent already shot up more than usual, even in the times.

The roads remain empty. People stick indoors. The police watch me; I run into my apart complex, which is nestled between a Brazilian café and a shoe repair store. It's inconspicuous; that's good. I fumble for my key, insert it, and take the stairs instead of the very questionable elevator. By the fifth floor, my legs throb. By the seventh, I'm a bit breathless, but I'm moving fast and I can't wait to get home. I use the key, swing the door open—

And immediately there's a loud, high-pitched voice.

"Who the hell are you?!"