Red Blurred Into Orange (3)

Hours pass. The morning light spills across my fingers, pale and cool—cold as the hands of the greens.

Maybe that’s why I hate them.

Because they remind me of myself.

Not for their blood, their hierarchy, or their poison-colored skin, but because every time I see one, I see what I could have become. What I still might be.

I let the thought go.

The girl is still sleeping.

The sun rose a few hours ago, and though the day is short—sixteen hours at most—I know reds need more rest than us. Inferior circulation. Fragile immune systems. She needs the full eight. Maybe more.

So I let her sleep.

Now, with my breath clean and cold, I carry a handful of toothbrushes in different colors. I don’t know which one she’d like, so I will bring all of them. I nudge the small shape beneath the ice-blue blanket. Light. Careful.

“Casandra,” I whisper.

The name comes out soft, and selfish. I know it isn’t hers. But I say it anyway.

“Wakey, wakey.”

I speak as if I hadn’t killed last night. As if I were back in another life—watching my real daughter spin through the grass, hand in hand with her friends, while my wife leaned against me, warm and real and alive.

The blanket shifts.

Her eyes flutter open, still caught in sleep, beads of sweat on her brow. I go still. The act dies in my throat. I place the toothbrushes gently on her stomach and step back. Sit on a chair once owned by some desk-bound aristocrat. It creaks beneath my weight.

I stare at the ceiling. Let my gaze wander to her again.

She watches me.

Topaz eyes. Quiet. Cautious.

She blinks slowly, glances at the toothbrushes, then picks one and begins brushing her teeth. No words. Just motion. I track the rhythm as if it were sacred.

As the foam builds in her mouth, my hazel eyes drift to the window. The city glows in cold tones. Blue. Always blue. Beautiful, but empty. Like a mausoleum with marble towers.

I open my mouth.

It takes three tries for my voice to come.

“We have to go.”

She doesn’t react, not right away. Just shifts her gaze to the side.

“We can’t stay here any longer.”

My voice is lower this time. Grounded. The paranoia from last night is gone. Only weight remains.

“I’ll take you somewhere safe,” I say, my fingers laced, elbows resting on my knees. I lean forward, not too far. Not enough to scare her. “I’ll make sure to care for you. So don’t be afraid to ask for anything.”

For a second, she looks at me.

Then she turns away.

The foam spills too much this time—off her lips and onto the blanket. She panics. Tries to scoop it back into her mouth, catch it before it falls. It’s already too late.

She freezes. Looks at me, terrified.

Her arms pull the blanket tighter around her, as if bracing for a blow.

I stand.

Her eyes close.

Tightly. Reflexively. As if she's done this before.

My heart breaks—quietly.

Her topaz eyes are gone, but I still see them. They burn into me. Not because they match Casandra’s—but because they don’t. They’re hers. Whoever she really is.

I walk forward. My movements slow. Heavy.

I kneel.

Wrap my arms around her small, shaking frame.

“No need to be afraid.”

She doesn’t move. Her eyes remain shut, her brows drawn together in that same silent expression of defense. I feel her arms against my chest, bruised and brittle. I hear her breath. It’s shallow. Fragile.

Like mine.

I adjust my grip, lifting her gently, letting her rest against my shoulder. She doesn’t struggle, but she doesn’t relax either. I feel her tear first—how it slides down her cheek like a pearl—and then the rest of her.

She’s trembling.

I tighten the hold. Not too tight.

Just enough.

“I’ll take care of you from now on.”

The words feel unfamiliar, like speaking a forgotten language.

I rise with her in my arms.

My steps are slow and wide as I pivot her body slightly, shielding her from the right hallway where the blue corpses lie. But the smell is harder to hide. Burnt perfume. Iron. Rot.

She flinches as the scent hits.

“We’ll dress first,” I say, as gently as I can. “Before we take a little trip. Just you and me, alright?”

She says nothing. But she doesn’t resist either.

I carry her through the corridor. Her weight is nothing—barely forty kilograms. But my arms tremble.

Not from the burden.

From the fear that I will break this too.

I try to calm myself.

She’s not her. She’s not my daughter.

But she could’ve been.

An orange-blooded child, born of green and orange. My Casandra—my real Casandra—had lips this same shade, under this same light. A reddish hue, turned darker by shadow, made to lie.

And now, in this dim corridor, the illusion is back.

My vision blurs.

I see her again.

Casandra.

It’s selfish.

I know it.

I shouldn’t project her onto this girl. Shouldn’t twist her into the shape of my grief. But I can’t stop. Not yet.

A tear drops onto her pajama sleeve. I taste salt. Guilt.

“I’m sorry, little girl,” I murmur. “I must seem oddly weird.”

She still says nothing.

My grip tightens. Not rough—just secure. I sniff, trying to contain the rest. Pulling back the snot with as much dignity as I can manage.

“Just know,” I say, voice raw, “there won’t be any harm to you anymore.”