The big table is ready: three character sheets, dice, and the lamp turned down just enough to give the room the feel of an inn. It smells of tea and of the wax of the candles she never lights, kept for a big night that never comes. Your phone buzzes once, somewhere at the bottom of your bag. It can wait.

Jo is already there, cross-legged on his chair, busy copying out his knight's exploits in a fair hand. He welcomes you by pulling your sleeve, and you land against his shoulder, in your place, the one in the middle. "We saved you the best cushion."

Nour sets down the cups, sits across from you, and brushes back a lavender strand fallen in front of your eyes, absently, the way you straighten a page. "So. Who are you bringing back tonight?"

On the table, your sheet is nearly empty. At the top, a name, the one you gave him long ago, not quite yours, not quite someone else's. Below it, the class: shapeshifter. On the form line: nothing. The other classes have their boxes filled, height, bearing, voice; the shapeshifter has only blank space, and that blank is not an oversight. It is all anyone knows about him, and it is why you take him up again every time.