Dust always settles in these iron boxes crawling through the city—on the seats, mingling with sweat and cheap perfume, clinging to the folds of Vivienne's burgundy velvet coat. She hates dust. It reminds her of decay without aesthetics, of formless disintegration. Her pale hand tightens involuntarily around the heavy, cool weight in her pocket—her coin. Its serrated edge bites into her thumb, the familiar pain bringing her focus back to the present.

The bus growls, lurching over potholes somewhere on the outskirts. Beyond the window, dull warehouse facades drift by, smeared with graffiti, streetlamps casting long, dancing shadows. Inside, the bus seethes with youthful energy—students chatter, laugh, toss stupid jokes back and forth. Their vitality is bright but shallow, like the flash of a cheap camera. Ants in a glass colony, Vivienne observes from her seat up front, back to the driver—a faceless creature whose presence registers only as a faint vibration in the air. Just part of the mechanism. Nothing more.

There are many passengers, but Vivienne waits for one. The scent cuts through dust and musty upholstery—not perfume or sweat, but electricity: anxiety laced with sharp curiosity. Her. The one sitting somewhere in the back, by the window. Vivienne feels her gaze skimming over her back, clinging like a tentacle. Not like the others—this gaze holds recognition, vague and deep, like the echo of a forgotten dream.

The coin in her pocket grows warm, responding to the proximity. Vivienne allows the faintest smile to touch her lips. Her recidivist. Her enigma.

For Vivienne, time isn't a linear river but meaningless flickers of days like yellowed calendar pages. Yet here, in this rattling box filled with fermenting young souls, time thickens into something slow and syrupy. She rises smoothly, soundlessly—her movement cutting through noise like a knife through canvas. Conversations falter into wary whispers as dozens of eyes latch onto her. Tiny, hungry sparks of fear, uncertainty, anticipation—raw material, basic and uninteresting, yet necessary for the backdrop.

Her measured steps echo like a metronome in the growing hush, folds of her coat swaying like the wings of a bird of prey. She asks questions—empty to them, profound to her. Jake about the price of memories, his laughter trembling like a taut string with fear of loss. Chloe about lies and truth, her voice a mouse's squeak trapped by fear of pain. Marcus about chance, his skepticism thin armor over an abyss of incomprehension and fear of chaos.

She feeds in passing—microscopic portions just enough to keep form in this wretched place. Her shadow on the ceiling darkens momentarily, blacker than should be possible.

And then she reaches her—pressed against cold glass with eyes wide as a stormy sea. Not just fear there, but a tempest—curiosity wrestling with instinct to flee, defiance, and something deeper. An echo of their past dances at the edges.

Vivienne stops before her, the entire bus holding its breath like theater curtains falling silent. 'Would you stake your life... on a simple game?' Her whisper slices through silence, intimate beyond what's appropriate for this place. She slowly draws the coin from her pocket, dull silver glinting in reflected light. 'Heads or tails?'

The silence turns absolute. Someone swallows audibly. The girl looks at the coin, then into Vivienne's eyes. Her fear pulses around her like a dark wine aura—fear of falling, fear of madness, and that special, uniquely hers fear of her own dark depths reaching out. But on the surface—foam of thrill and defiance.

'Yes,' she exhales, voice slightly hoarse but steady. 'Why not?'

There it is—the spark. That moment of pure presence as her entire essence condenses into that 'yes.' Vivienne's fingers tighten around the coin as the girl's energy hits her in a wave—sharp, intoxicating, with the bitter aftertaste of unique longing. Exquisite.

'Heads—you win a trip,' Vivienne says, lips stretching into a smile devoid of warmth. 'Tails—you stay with me.'

She flips the coin. It spins in the air, time slowing to a jellyfish's crawl as it hangs, catching dim light from streetlamps outside. It spins too long—unnaturally long—as the girl tracks it with held breath, her fear and hope focusing on this piece of metal until it becomes an altar, a sacrifice.

Vivienne sees the thread—a thin, silvery line trembling from the girl's solar plexus to the coin, pure concentrated fear energy her essence craves.

The coin falls. The girl catches it instinctively, pressing it to her chest with eyes squeezed shut for a second.

'Open,' Vivienne whispers, voice a serpent's hiss in the silence.

She slowly uncurls her palms. The silver disc rests on pale skin—Heads.

A collective exhale ripples through the bus—relief and disappointment mingled.

Vivienne tilts her head, shadow deepening momentarily as she inhales—not air, but essence. That thread of fear and thrill vibrates between them, flooding into her—cold, effervescent, intoxicating. Golden sparks flicker in the depths of her eyes. The taste—dark chocolate and ashes with a hint of wild roses—is incomparable.

'Lucky... this time,' she murmurs, a playful lilt making the girl flinch harder than any direct stare.

Their gaze holds a second too long—enough for her to see something in the amber depths. Maybe the glint of Tails? Or the abyss of centuries? A silent promise: Until next time.

Vivienne turns as the bus jerks to a halt, wheels screeching. Outside—rusted gates and the ugly silhouette of a derelict Ferris wheel against blood-red sunset. 'Garden of Chance.' Her home. Her stage.

'Welcome,' she announces, addressing everyone but only meeting the girl's pale reflection in grimy glass, 'to the real tour.'

The game begins. The harvest has only just started. And the ripest, most desired fruit is already here. She remembers—even if she doesn't realize it yet. She remembers the taste of Vivienne's game. And Vivienne will remind her again and again until she makes the true choice. Until she becomes... hers.

The coin in her pocket grows cold and heavy again. Waiting for the next toss. Waiting for her.