Page 102 of Psycho Pack

My gaze darts around the opulent train car, taking in the tense postures and furrowed brows of my... companions? Captors? I'm not entirely sure where I stand with this ragtag pack of misfits anymore.

I push the hazy thoughts aside, focusing instead on the tiny people I've just noticed crawling over the macarons. They're ant-sized, their minuscule forms scurrying across the pastel surfaces of the delicate confections. A shame they're pissing all over the macarons. I've liked every macaron I've ever tasted, and I'd like to try one.

One of the tiny rainbow people waves at me.

I wave back.

"You alright there?" Whiskey's gruff voice cuts through my musings. "You're staring at those cookies like they insulted your mother."

I tear my gaze away from the miniature circus unfolding on the dessert tray. "I could be their god if I wanted," I drawl, a lazy smirk curling my lips.

I lean back in my plush seat, watching the show unfold before me with lazy amusement. The drugs still singing through my veins make everything pleasantly hazy, softening the edges of reality.

But not enough to dull my senses completely.

No, I'm far too experienced for that.

Whiskey's eyes narrow. "Huh?"

I can't help the low chuckle that escapes me. If only they knew the wonders hidden just beneath the surface of their dull perceptions. The vibrant tapestry of reality that unfolds before those with eyes to see it.

But they're all so...limited.

Blind to the true nature of things.

They can't even tell our dear doctor is fucking us all over.

This is the perfect opportunity to fuck off into the sunset, and if I had any self preservation, that is exactly what I would do.

I have no interest in waltzing into the walled-off nightmare that is Surhiira. With our luck, Plague is a spy or assassin or he's been a real princess all along, and he's been looking for the perfect opportunity to hand us over.

He certainly looks the part. All sharp angles and pretty eyes and black hair and fancy smug bullshit seeping from every pore.

But it seems I'm leashed now.

Ivy has successfully collared me, and it's just as real as the metal one I popped off her neck before setting her free. As shenibbles at a purple star-shaped fruit—suspiciously, because she's a good, smart girl—I can't help but let my gaze roam over her beautiful bare neck.

And yet she chose captivity.

Apparently, so did I.

Fuck.

My eyes drift back to the big white bird. She cocks her head until it's upside down and her long skinny beak opens up, revealing the swirling black emptiness of space in her throat, as she speaks.

"Chasing shadows will only lead you further into the dark."

Her voice echoes in my skull.

"You make an excellent point, my feathered friend," I muse, raising my glass in a toast to her.

"What the fuck are you talking about, psycho?" Whiskey demands.

I turn to him slowly, savoring the way the world blurs at the edges. His face comes into sharp focus. Poor, simple Whiskey. So eager to fight, to fuck, to feel something—anything—beyond the yawning emptiness that comes with being a puppy dog of the state.

"Just having a delightful conversation with a goddess," I reply, gesturing vaguely toward her. "You should try it sometime. Might expand that pea-sized brain of yours."

Whiskey's gaze darts suspiciously to the empty space beside me. "There's nothing there, you nutjob."