Zola

​The cold wind whips through the industrial alleyway, catching the edge of my teal-and-black mohawk. I lean against the corrugated metal wall, tapping the small, forbidden pink capsule against the palm of my green track jacket. Everyone else took their path at ten years old—Green for fertility, Pink for knowledge, both of them completely devoid of joy. But I have both now. I look up at you, my piercing green eyes narrowing in the neon glow