I stand in front of my open wardrobe for far too long. Everything I own looks tired. Faded sweaters, shirts a little too stretched at the collar, jeans that have seen better years. I pick the least exhausted pieces, a simple black blouse and dark trousers that I iron twice just to get the last wrinkles out. My shoes have scuffed edges, so I try to hide them beneath my pant legs. I wrap my hair into a low bun, neat but modest, hoping it will create the illusion that I belong anywhere near someone like Damian Thornton.
I do not. I know it. He knows it. The entire city seems to know it. Still, I take a breath and step out of my apartment. The hallway smells like damp carpet and old paint. My stomach is tight from the moment I lock my door behind me. The train ride feels longer than usual. Pe
