Steph stood outside the venue, clutching a folded invitation she'd found slipped under her door that morning. Inside, the artist who'd dismissed her was showing new work. The crowd filing past her wore sleek fur and polished scales. None of them looked like worms. The gallery's glass doors reflected her back at herself — small, soft, rainbow-streaked. She thought about turning around. But this was why she wanted to build her own space, wasn't it? So creatures like her could see work that mattered without feeling like they'd snuck in through the wrong entrance. Steph pushed through the doors. The room inside hummed with voices, all of them discussing the sculptures on white pedestals. And there, across the room, stood the artist herself — wings folded, surrounded by admirers. Steph moved toward the nearest piece and studied it. The work was good. It always had been. That's what made this so hard.