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Pink and raised, slightly angry.

The first jagged curve of a letter I wish I could unsee.

D.

But I already talked to April about this, and I know she can do the job.

April's face softens immediately.

“Okay. We still going with your plan?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice even. “I don’t want to see this anymore. Or at least, not like this.”

She nods. “Are we doing monochrome or full color? You were undecided when we last talked,” she reminds me.

I reach into my bag and pull out the carefully folded sketch.

April takes the drawing from my hands, and the second she sees it, her breath catches.

The girls go still, all their chattering silenced as they lean in to see.

“Holy shit,” Aella whispers reverently.

Shelly nods, her eyes wide. “That’s badass.”

“It’s beautiful,” Michaela says softly, then looks up at me. “And so are you for doing this.”

April holds the paper like it’s a sacred relic, her gaze moving over every curve and color of the design. “You drew this?”

I nod once, nervous energy thrumming in my veins. “I’ve been working on it since the scar started healing.”

“It’s not just beautiful,” she says. “It’s fierce. It’s bold. It’s a declaration.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying, but my voice still cracks.

“That’s the idea.”

April gives me a small, understanding smile and gestures to the chair. “Let’s do this.”

As I settle in, the robe slipping down to expose my shoulder, the buzz of the machine kicks up.

That first sting makes me tense—but only for a second.

Because it’s not just pain.

It’s purpose.

It’s power.

It’s reclaiming a part of me that was taken.

The girls stay nearby, voices soft and supportive, occasionally brushing my hand or cracking a joke to keep things light.

But even with all the love around me, I’m focused on the hum of the machine and the heat that starts building in my chest.

A phoenix.

Not broken.