I don't know how long I stayed there in that old, abandoned alleyway.

I don't know how long I stayed there with my trembling form. With my hands shaking and clutched against my chest. With my heart racing in disgust. With my mind filled with dread.

I stayed there. I don't know for how long.

I wanted to go back home. I wanted to go to the Agency. I wanted to go, see my parents.

But at the same time, I was so so disgusted. And shaking. I was trembling because there was still blood everywhere and on the pavement and near my feet.

And I had just killed an innocent boy. A boy I think was innocent. A boy who Orias thought was not innocent. Maybe he wasn't. But how could I have not saved him? I was supposed to save everyone. I was supposed to have save him from falling.

I pressed my trembling wrists against my forehead and scrunched my eyes closed.

I killed someone.

"No," I whispered. Scared and weak. "No, no, no."

I let someone die.

I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I wanted to curl up there and cry. I didn't. I couldn't cry. I haven't cried for a long time now. I never even cried when I visited my parent's graves. I couldn't now either.

Instead, I pressed my forehead into my knees, blinked, and tapped on the band around my arm, contacting the Agency.

And then I waited.

Closing my eyes shut and pushing it all down, I waited for them to come here.

• • •

The body of that ski-masked boy was taken care of. I don't know how or where it was taken, but the few men who arrived at the scene from the Agency, sent by Orias, took care of it.

I was still shaking, trying not to, when I arrived at the Agency building, past the guards and down the numerous hallways that I knew the directions of with my heart.

I don't know what I was expecting when I stepped inside the common room. Maybe some hateful looks for what I had just done? Or maybe some questions since I was still trembling?

What I wasn't expecting was Orias to come up and pat my back. Proudly. I didn't hear what he said, but the glint in his dark eyes told me he was proud of me for doing what he'd asked of me.

And maybe that should've made me happy. Making him happy was the only thing I ever wanted.

But I didn't understand it, any of it, as I slumped down in one chair around the large wooden table in the room.

Orias and I weren't the only ones here. People were talking. I wasn't listening, just staring down at my hands. Hands that could've worked sooner and saved that boy from falling.

"Seven, I know this may not be easy for you--" Orias started but I cut him off.

"I killed someone," I whispered, looking up at him and him only. Because he was the only one in the whole of the Agency that mattered to me the most. And he knew, Orias knew what this was doing to me. Knowing that I failed to save someone.

Everyone else went silent at that. The few guards Orias had called in here to discuss some matters. River. Jade too.

"Yes." Orias nodded. He didn't look mad that I cut him off. "Someone who would've been a danger to this town and this city."

No, I wanted to say.

"I could've saved him." My voice came out weak, my throat clogged up with an emotion too foreign.

I sniffled and looked back down at my hands, clenching my jaw.

"He was far too gone to be saved." Orias shook his head. Then he rounded the table and squeezed my shoulder briefly--the only sort of comfort he could give. "You did good today, Seven. Like a true hero. That wouldn't however wipe all the evil from this city. We've still got work to do."

I closed my eyes when my chin quivered. I desperately wanted him to stay behind. Let everyone leave and stay behind and talk to me, reassure me of something. Tell me that this wasn't like the fire that had happened almost a year ago. When I had failed to save a handful of civilians. When I had failed to save them from that perishing fire.

That had been a year ago, though. Maybe Orias had forgotten already. I hadn't. I never could when I still had nightmares about it.

He tapped my shoulder. "We'll be in my office. You can have tomorrow off."

And then he was gone with the guards and the people and even River. I wished River would stay behind, tell me what I did was wrong. It had been wrong. But no one stayed.

All except Jade who came by and sat down beside me.

And there was just silence.

"It'll get better, Dahlia." She murmured in a quiet voice, but she wasn't even looking at me.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead onto the table.

"You should let me check your neck. The dart could've been drugged." She sighed.

My voice didn't come out shaky, but numb. Like it wasn't coming from me. "How do you know about the dart?"

She raised her brows when I glanced at her. "The band. You get recorded. I thought you knew that?"

I didn't know that. "I get recorded?" The disbelief must've been obvious in my voice since Jade shifted a little in her position.

"Well, yes." She nodded. "To know what kind of backup we need to send after you. To know if you're really in danger or if you can handle it alone."

I swallowed. A beat of silence passed by before I spoke up again, "I think he was innocent, Jade."

Jade seemed uncomfortable talking about this. I couldn't blame her. She was a medic here, present only to tend to physical injuries, not a therapist.

"Even if he was," she whispered, leaning a little towards me. "It doesn't matter, Dahlia. You did right. We can't take chances."

I stayed silent.

"Being a hero is hard." She added. "You can't always save everyone. Sometimes, you have to choose between the city's safety against one single person."

"But heroes don't kill," I whispered.

Jade looked away. "You did right, Dahlia."

And maybe if I keep telling myself that, like everyone else, I might be able to start believing in it too.

• • •

When I headed back to my apartment, I somehow expected Jamie to be there.

But during my entire walk back home, into the apartment building, and up the stairs, I came across not even a single person. Everyone was in their houses, doing what they usually did at this hour of the night, being normal.

Even Jamie wasn't there when I unlocked the apartment door and went inside. I didn't know whether to be relieved or sad at that. I even considered walking over to Dolores's apartment next door and asking her for some company.

Maybe I should've just stayed at the Agency. But I hadn't. Because that place had started to feel a little less like home at the moment and that scared me. If my only home was starting to feel like anything but that, where would I be left to go?

I had just let someone die right before my eyes.

The Agency's walls were starting to cave in on me.

And I was here, all alone in my empty little apartment.

Maybe I wanted someone to lash out at me. Tell me that I was a horrible person. Because I did feel like one. I killed someone. I made Orias happy yet I felt anything but happy. It was all wrong.

I got out my phone and texted Jamie, where are you?

It was a relief when he answered almost immediately. Wherever I may be, he said. Why does that concern you?

I stared down at my phone, wondering what I should say to that. My fingers hovered over the keypad, but I pulled away. My thoughts raced. I didn't know. I didn't know.

I wasn't being myself. Jamie was treating me normally. Because he doesn't know that you just killed an innocent boy, a voice spoke in my head. Venomous and full of hatred. I gripped my phone a little tighter.

Another text from Jamie popped up.

James: have you done something atrocious that you need my help getting out of?

I killed someone. I stared until tears started stinging at the corners of my eyes.

Me: no.

Me: where are you jamie?

I saw the three bubbles appear on the screen as he typed, and then disappear for a few seconds. Then he started typing again, the tiny studio behind the art department.

I was picking up my jacket way before he typed his next text.

James: are you all right?

I switched off my phone, then switched it back on. Before switching it off again. What was I doing?

I slid my phone inside my pocket and shrugged on my jacket. And as I left my apartment and closed the front door, I could see that my hands had started shaking again.

Then I was making my way out of the apartment building and walking to my college.

The entire campus was empty and dark except for the tiny sliver of light coming from the studio right behind the art building.

I hadn't ever gone inside there before. It was supposedly just for art kids who wanted to do their projects in peace. But it was small. And as I slowly neared it, I wondered if I even wanted to go inside. I didn't want it to feel as small as my apartment with the walls enclosing me.

I just wanted...I don't know what I wanted.

By the time I stopped in front of the two wooden doors, I think I had stopped shaking.

But I was wrong when Jamie slid open the doors for me, from the inside, and the first thing he said was, "You're shaking."

Which, I guess, must've been obvious.

I glanced behind him, then back at him. "It's cold." Was my excuse. I absolutely hated how horrified I sounded at that moment.

I think Jamie caught onto it too since his gaze turned a little wary. I stared and he stared back and I think both of us weren't too sure of what to say. I wrapped my arms around myself and he stepped a little towards me. I flinched back.

"Hey, hey," he pulled back his outstretched hand, which I hadn't even seen coming my way. "You seem awfully jumpy. What the hell happened?"

I blinked at him through my slightly fogged glasses, frowned a little, and looked down at my shoes. I didn't look into his eyes. Because what if he saw it in my eyes? What if he found out that I killed someone not too many hours ago? What if everyone, or one of those reporters, found out? What if I wake up tomorrow to get all of it thrown at my face? The looks, the hatred, the questions.

His family, I thought. That boy must have a family. What would they think, now that he won't return to them? How will his family live just because I let him die?

I felt sick.

"Dahlia, you're shaking," Jamie spoke up. I looked up into his eyes, wide blue eyes, and I didn't just hear the confusion in his voice. I saw it in his eyes too.

I pursed my lips and fitted my hands under my armpits. The need to fidget inside me was slowly growing. I was exhausted, I realised, but my mind and my heart were working up in a way that drove all the exhaustion away. Paranoia. Alert mode.

I wanted to lie down somewhere so badly and close my eyes. Stop my heart from beating so fast.

"Can I..." I started, my eyes darting behind him. "Can I come inside?"

He blinked, perplexed.

"Is it only for the art kids?" I asked him in a small voice.

Jamie stared at me, his gaze almost a little scrutinizing. Then he took a step back. "'Course it isn't. As long as you don't trash it."

I won't, I wanted to say. All that came out was a quick nod.

Jamie was right. I was a little jumpy when I stepped inside and he slid the doors close behind me.

"Go on," he murmured behind me and I started walking inside.

It was a momentary distraction as my eyes zoned in on everything around me. I hadn't ever been inside here before. It was small like it looked from the outside, but it was strangely warm too. A warm, wooden workplace, with the smell of paints and canvases floating in the air.

It was...it was, "warm," I said.

Jamie was somewhere in front of me now, and his eyes found mine when I said that. He didn't say anything in response to that though, just frowned a little and stepped towards me. My elbow accidentally hit the plastic mug beside me and sent it tumbling down the counter, with all the paintbrushes scattering around my feet.

I grimaced. "Sorry, I was..." I trailed off, my eyes wide, my throat closing in on itself.

Jamie's frown deepened. "Can you sit down?"

When I merely stared at him in response, he nudged his head behind me. I turned around cautiously to see a wooden stool. So I nodded and sat down.

He took a few seconds staring me down before fixing the mess of paintbrushes I had just made. I almost offered to help but realised that maybe I should just stay where I am.

Once he was done, Jamie went back to what he must've been doing before I dropped by here. There were paint tubes opened and on the floor with a large canvas propped right near the wall. Jamie went ahead and sat there, looking far more relaxed than I felt.

"You paint," I stated like a moron.

He spared me a glance and a small quirk of his lips. "That I do."

"I didn't know you paint." I corrected myself, my eyes once again trailing along with the room. One way to control my fidgeting, I noted in my head. Go and visit new places. "I didn't even know you were an art kid."

He was examining two shades of blue now. One like his eyes and the other was like the sky outside.

"I am." He said. I shifted a little on the stool and he glanced up at me. "Actually, you can come and sit down here."

"Why?" I sounded a little too defensive. Paranoid. What if the Agency was recording this conversation? I thought, then mentally backtracked. No, no, that was when I was suited up. When I was Cinder Girl. Not when I was just Dahlia and just normal.

"Dahlia," Jamie said and I focused back on him. He was staring at me with that odd frown again. Then he patted the space beside him on the floor. "Come here."

I stared. I stared for a very long time. I can't, I wanted to say. "I'm fine here," I replied in a timid voice, wrapping my arms around myself again. I felt timid and scared and weak. So different from Cinder Girl. I sounded like someone who had lost the only normal in her world.

Jamie sighed and shrugged. "Fine."

And that was that. We didn't say anything after that. It was just silence. And as seconds ticked by and Jamie got busied with the canvas and those paints again, I started growing agitated. I hated this silence. I had killed someone and this silence was killing me.

So I got up from the stool and quietly sat down where he'd invited me to sit at. The only sense of acknowledgement I got from him was the slight stiffening of his shoulders. He didn't glance my way either.

I pulled up my knees against my chest and propped my chin over them, exhaling a shaky sigh.

"Are you not cold?" I asked him quietly, noticing that he was just wearing a grey t-shirt, which was covered a little in paint splotches.

"Not really." He shrugged. "It's warm in here."

It was. But I was still shaking. And I wanted him to keep talking.

"Who are you painting this for?" I asked him and my throat clenched a little. In warning or sadness, I didn't know. I didn't know because I still felt on the verge of tears and I never cried.

"Myself." He replied, still not really looking at me. "Who else would I paint this for?"

"I don't know," I murmured. "Your friends? Or family? Your sisters or brothers?" If you have any.

"I don't have any."

I took a few seconds to reply. "You can gift them to your friends on Christmas or their birthdays though," I whispered. "I can see a lot of money being saved."

He cracked a smile at that. A real smile. Not one that told me he was proud of me just because I let an innocent person die. It was a smile that made me want to tell him everything. I wanted to ask him if he'd still smile at me that way when I tell him what I had done.

My eyes watered and I looked down at my knees before he could've looked at me.

"I haven't yet. People I am acquainted with do not really have it in them to appreciate my paintings." He told me. The plain humour in his voice lightened the atmosphere.

I sniffled and looked over at the painting. It was a little strange. A barren landscape with no life or beauty, sad and beautiful.

"I like it. Maybe you can gift this one to me this Christmas." I told him.

"We don't do gifts."

I blinked, stiffened, and pulled back a little. He was right. We didn't. We never hung out outside our apartment either. This wasn't normal. Me being away from the Agency when feeling this unpredictable wasn't normal. Me trying not to cry wasn't normal either. Crying wasn't normal and stopping myself from doing it wasn't normal and killing someone wasn't normal and hating myself wasn't normal.

"We can do it this year though," Jamie added in a little quickly. I looked up at him and noticed that he wasn't painting anymore. Again. He looked wary and careful looking at me, as if treading on thin ice.

I tried pulling myself together, but it was easier said than done. "Sure." My voice came out shaky and on the verge of breaking.

He frowned and pushed the paintbrushes aside. And I felt fear crawling up my gut when he turned towards me, facing me, giving me all of his undivided attention.

I didn't want that.

"Dahlia--"

"What." I blurted out. "I'm fine."

He scrunched up his nose at me and his knee softly bumped against my shoe. "Clearly, you are not. You've been shaking since you came in here and I know it's not the cold. So could you stop lying and tell me what the fuck is going on?"

I licked my chapped lips, once again staring down at my knees. If my parents were here, they would hate me. Everyone in this city would hate me. Ice Phantom would laugh at me because I was pathetic. He was right. I was. Pathetic and horrible and not a hero.

"Is it so bad if you let yourself cry?" Jamie asked me softly, confused, his eyes still on me.

I didn't close my eyes, even when I wanted to. I didn't clench my jaw, even if I wanted to. I just stared at one spot, waiting and waiting until it all went away. Like I did whenever I wanted to cry over my dead parents. Like I did whenever I used to wonder what life outside the Agency walls would be like.

If you cry, a familiar voice echoed in my head, you're weak.

Jamie remained silent, though I knew he was watching me. Maybe he was judging me. Thinking how pathetic I was. Thinking how abnormal I was.

I heard him let out a long sigh. "Well, clearly this isn't working." He muttered, let a few more seconds pass by, before adding, "My parents kicked me out and abandoned me when I was ten."

I blinked, surprised, and turned to look at him.

He must've taken that as a sign to go on, "And I had no one back then, except for my aunt. She took me in and she raised me from then on. She was the only family I had."

Was.

I stared. He was staring back.

"She was the best thing that happened to me. She was always there for me. Whatever I went through, she went through it with me. And she treated me like her own son. She never, in her whole life, gave up on me." He raised a brow. "Which I guess was something since my own parents gave up on me."

I frowned a little. Why? I wanted to ask him. But I couldn't. I couldn't form any words then. And maybe it was better that way. Maybe he wouldn't have answered me anyway. I could see it in his eyes that he knew he'd already shared enough.

But he still kept going. At least one of us wasn't holding back.

"She loved when it snowed." He told me and something ached inside me when I saw his eyes brightening up, like midnight sky so full of stars. "Which was so fucking messed up because I hate--I was told to hate--when it snows. She loved the cold. She always got this...mad happy look on her face when it snowed or whenever it got cold in the house. She loved me."

It wasn't apparent, but I think I saw a flicker of longing in his eyes. He missed his aunt. He didn't say it though. I wanted to reach out and touch him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice hoarse and sad.

His eyes found mine, glinting with something that seemed like humour. A way to conceal the pain. "I don't suppose her death was your fault now, was it?"

I shrugged. Then sniffled.

Jamie kept staring and something darkened in his gaze. "I have a feeling you're always there for others but no one's there for you when you need them to be."

I blinked in surprise.

"I have a feeling that's exactly why you are not letting yourself cry even after...whatever it is that happened." He added.

I felt my heart race and race and crawl up my throat.

"That's not true," I whispered. Because it wasn't. I had people with me. I had people who'd be there for me if I let them. The only problem was that I couldn't. They wouldn't understand. There was innocent blood on my hands and people should kill me for it.

"Isn't it?" He asked. "You've been shaking for quite some time now, trying to keep it all in."

His words were direct. They made me feel bare--like I had no shield or armour out on a battlefield.

"You don't know what happened," I murmured. "You wouldn't be pitying me right now if you knew."

And then I froze a little in horror when I realised that maybe I had said too much. Too much to make him doubt. Too much to make him suspicious.

Instead, all he did was roll his eyes.

"Right," Jamie said. "And they call me a nuthead."

I frowned. "Who called you a nuthead?"

Jamie picked up a paintbrush and pushed it towards me. I took it cluelessly, wrapping my fingers around it. Then before I could say anything, he was picking up a small blank canvas and sliding it towards me too.

I stared at him in question.

"Painting is therapeutic." He shrugged.

I gripped the paintbrush. "I don't...why...I've got..." When I trailed off helplessly, not being able to find the right words, Jamie handed me a tube of paint. A shade like the midnight sky.

"You came here to distract yourself, yes?"

I nodded after a few silent seconds.

"Painting's a marvellous distraction." He said, and I barely almost didn't catch the hint of an accent in his voice. It was barely there. And so so familiar. I just couldn't pinpoint where I'd heard it before.

I looked down at the blank canvas, holding the paintbrush and not sure what to do. I didn't know what to do.

And I suppose I would've kept staring at the canvas all cluelessly if Jamie hadn't taken my hand, his fingers softly brushing the back of my own, before he placed the paint tube on my palm.

A tiny shiver ran down my spine and my eyes stared up into his, the cool touch of his fingers now seared into my skin.

"Your hand's so cold," I stated a little curiously. "You said you weren't cold. Are you trying to fall ill again on purpose?"

He blinked, surprised, then a small laugh escaped him, his dimples flashing into view. I don't know why just that made some tension dissipate from my body.

"I'm not cold." He told me again.

"You are." I frowned a little, and nudged his hand with the paintbrush in my hand for further emphasis. "Your hand's so cold."

"Poor circulation, love."

I blinked. Then blinked again. I think my breath hitched a little.

Jamie cleared his throat. "So, are you going to the party?"

"What party?"

"Lana's birthday party." He clarified.

Lana. Lana was the head of the social club of our college. Quite literally. She loved planning all the events for our college. She knew everyone and everyone knew her.

That way, when she held her birthday parties, things always took turns for the worse when literal crowds showed up at her family bungalow.

"I...I don't know." I murmured a little unsurely. "I don't think she invited me."

"She did," Jamie said. He was staring at my hands as I placed little bits of the blue paint on the wooden palette. "I suppose it was her when two invitations magically appeared beneath our apartment door?"

I frowned a little, dipping my paintbrush in the beautiful blue. "How does she even know where I live?"

"Or I, for that matter."

"How does she know where we live?" I asked him.

"I think it's pretty obvious." He shrugged. "It's either the apartment buildings here or the dorms."

Jamie went back to his own painting as I stared at him. It took me a while, but soon enough I went back to the one in front of me too. I didn't know what I was painting. But Jamie was right; it did feel therapeutic. It felt like all the tension from within me, all the pent up energy, all the need to fidget, was flowing out of me with the paintbrush strokes.

"Will you go?" I asked him, breaking the silence.

He hummed softly in thought. "Parties aren't my thing. They get too boring for my taste."

I sighed. Well, I suppose if he wasn't going...

But Penny would. And she would drag me along. And what if Neo would be there too? The last time Neo and I were together at a party, things had taken turn for the worse. Did I even want to see him when he'd been insinuating earlier that he knew my secrets? Not now, I thought.

"Unless," Jamie added. I glanced up to see the slight tug of one corner of his lips. Soft and mischievous. My heart skipped a beat. "A certain someone convinces me that it won't be too bland."

My heart skipped another slow beat. What was that supposed to mean?

I looked down at my hands. "Lana's parties always end up being disasters."

"Disasters sound hot."

I managed a tiny smile at that. Jamie took a peek at me and he was smiling too.

"I've heard the balcony's got a real nice view at her bungalow." He raised a brow, all nonchalantly. "Say, if you promise to spend ten minutes up there with me, alone, I might change my mind about going there."

I looked up from my painting, a somewhat ugly but pretty painting, and stared at him.

"That sounds like a disaster, Jamie," I told him, my voice just a whisper.

"It will be." The dark glint in his eyes seemed to promise me. "Will you?"

My heart slowly started racing as we stared, and not in a bad way. Not in a way that made me want to fidget, fight, be angry.

This was normal, I realised. This is what I wanted my normal to be like.

Jamie, I thought, what are you doing to me?

"Okay." I was trying not to smile when I looked back down at my painting. Relief spread through me as the final tension left my shoulders. "If you insist."

I was walking into fire.

And this time, maybe I wanted to.