Chapter 2: My artistic side

I wasn’t fine the next day.

Sure, I could move. I even managed to get out of bed without groaning—much. But I felt like I’d just finished a marathon. Not the solitary, triumphant kind. No, this was the kind where a thousand people are packed together like sardines, all stomping over each other to get to the finish line. Why do people sign up for those again?

I went through my morning routine before Sophie woke up. I had to—once she’s up, the bathroom becomes a no-go zone for what feels like forever. Peter came back from his morning run just as I was finishing up the toasts. He walked in, gave me a quick once-over to make sure I was still breathing and mentally intact, then headed to his room without a word. Good boy.

I’d packed my things before heading out for last night’s “gig,” so my bag was already set by the door. Today was stacked with my favorite classes: graphic design, symbolism in art, and painting. Honestly, despite the bruises and the chaos of the previous night, I felt... good. Alive. Balanced in that weird way only a dangerous high followed by morning coffee can bring.

So I sat at the table, sipping my coffee and finishing a slightly overdone toast, watching birds glide across the pale sky through the kitchen window.

It must have rained at some point during the night. The streets and pavements were speckled with puddles—ephemeral mirrors for the sky to gaze at its own reflection. In more melancholic moments, I used to find something poetic in that: how the sky could only truly see itself after it had cried.

Of course, that lovely metaphor dies a quiet death when you remember lakes, rivers, and oceans exist. But still—there’s some truth to it, isn’t there?

I used to cry a lot.

After my parents died in the car crash that orphaned me, I could’ve filled a river with my tears. But in that time, I learned something no one else could’ve taught me. I learned about myself. I learned that I could survive the kind of pain that shatters your entire world. And if I could survive that—then I could survive anything.

Today wasn’t a day for melancholy, so I pushed those thoughts aside. It was the 10th of September, and the sky wore my favorite shade of Maya Blue. The sun danced across my skin in warm, golden rays, and a gentle breeze rustled the still-green leaves on the trees. Autumn was nowhere in sight.

“Hi, girl.” Sophie emerged from the depths of the bathroom—a woman transformed. With her golden-blonde hair, angelic face framed by cool grey eyes, and the tall, graceful figure of a runway model, she should’ve been insufferable. And yet, despite all those obvious flaws, she was grounded, hard-working, and one of the kindest people I knew.

“Hi, Soph,” I mumbled, knees tucked to my chin, perched on the window ledge. “You smell wonderful.”

She really did. I wondered what it was.

“Thank you. It’s a new scent—I went shopping yesterday. I can grab you one too if you fancy it that much.”

If I asked, she’d give me her only bottle without blinking. But I’m not the pushy type.

“No, I don’t think it’d have the same effect on me as it does on you.”

She laughed.

“You still selling yourself short? You know you’re a sight yourself, girl.”

She was kind—but she wasn’t wrong either. Maturing had done me more than a few favors. I used to be chubbier as a teen, my freckled face bloated with baby fat, and I had no idea how to do my hair. Life in the orphanage, learning to steal and being beaten for failed attempts, left me bruised, tired, and always a bit ragged around the edges.

But now, in the third year of my bachelor’s degree, twenty-one years old and battle-tested, my body’s a well-oiled, athletic machine. And I’ve finally got my own pretty face to paint on.

Still, it was a nice thing to hear—so I indulged whenever I could.

“I’m heading out in about five minutes to catch the bus. Judging by your current state, I’m guessing we’ll meet on campus?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yeah. I still need to eat something before I go. I’m not Peter with his intermittent fasting—I’d die without a proper breakfast.”

I often wondered if she and Peter would ever become a thing, but neither of them had made a move. I asked Peter about it once. He said she was a good person—but not his type. That had genuinely shocked me. I thought she was everyone’s type.

“Bon appétit, then,” I said, offering her a smile before turning my gaze back outside to the world I’d soon rejoin—my thoughts already beginning to drift.

--

I live on the outskirts of town, about twenty minutes from the university by bus. My immediate neighborhood isn’t much to look at—just rows of old concrete block buildings, relics of a more utilitarian era. But as soon as the bus pulls away from my stop, the view opens up. We pass over a long steel bridge that spans the river, its ribs and cables arching overhead like the sinews of some great sleeping titan holding the city together. In the distance lies an island, tethered to the mainland by two smaller bridges on either side. That’s where the tech companies have staked their claim, their headquarters rising in sleek glass and colorful steel—an enclave of the future in the middle of the river. I’ve never been there, but it always looks so polished, so untouchable. So other.

After the bus rolls off the bridge, we glide past a stretch where the city softens. On the left, there’s a quiet park—tall trees casting long shadows, joggers weaving between them like fleeting thoughts. On the right, a small but lively shopping center comes into view: a few shops, some restaurants, a scattered mix of beauty salons and dry cleaners—the sort of place that feels like a comfortable pause in the rhythm of the city. Then we take a turn into the residential streets, where rows of stately houses and manicured lawns give way to the familiar chaos of student life. This is fraternity and sorority territory—flags, banners, and music leaking from half-open windows. Not long after, the main buildings of the university rise into view, their stone and glass facades like an open invitation to ambition.

This whole part of the ride grounded me, especially after last night’s chaos. I was early, no need to rush—just the perfect window to soak in the quiet beat of a life that most people would call normal. Sometimes I felt like an impostor, like a shadow slipping through a world built for someone else. A thief playing dress-up in borrowed peace. But then again—unlike most of the students attending this university, I had already paid this year’s tuition in full, and had next year’s secured too. The perks of stealing things with enough zeroes on their price tags to make rich men sweat.

Of course, none of that money ever touches my hands raw. It gets washed clean through the skilled fingers of my thieving mentor, Phillipe Penrose. Officially, I’m just his art appraiser—a respectable, cultured title that sounds good on paper and even better on tax records. But today, I’d have to visit him for more than paperwork. The necklace from last night still needed to be converted into liquid funds. I’d planned to give him just the cash to clean, but plans, like cars, sometimes crash spectacularly.

Penrose found me when I was still in the orphanage. He’d lost his own child sometime before and became a regular visitor and donor to our home—maybe out of guilt, maybe out of grief, maybe both. He saw something in me: a passion for art, sure, but more importantly, a knack for sleight of hand that no ten-year-old should’ve honed so well.

As a favor—though I’m not sure to whom—he convinced the headmistress to let him “borrow” me often. He taught me what he knew: the delicate art of stealing and the brutal discipline of gymnastics. If you want to be a proper thief, he’d say, both your hands and your body need to be sharp, swift, and unyielding. And so he trained me. Efficiently. Brutally. There were rarely any safety nets during his lessons—fall wrong, and you paid in bruises or breaks. If I didn’t meet his standards, I got lashed. Not metaphorically. Real ones. “Life is even harsher, Alexandra,” he’d say each time I cried.

And still, I kept going. Because he was the only adult who gave a damn about me. However twisted or pathological our relationship may have been, it was something. And something was more than what I had before.

Beyond the money, which gave me a sense of safety in this world, it was the masks I wore that let me blend in. I’d spent so long becoming other people—tailoring personas for whatever job or situation I found myself in—that even here, with my real name and my real face, I still wore a mask. A mask crafted not from latex or makeup, but from confidence and practiced ease. The mask of someone who belongs.

--

Graphic Design was my first class of the day, tucked into one of the newer buildings on campus—the kind with tall windows that let in too much sun and ceilings that made your footsteps echo like you were always being followed. The smell of printer ink, hot electronics, and those whiteboard markers that always stain your fingers—comforting in a weird way. It was the scent of creation, of deadlines, of people trying to shape something out of nothing.

I slid into my usual spot near the back, not because I didn’t care—I do, more than most here—but I like watching people when they work. It’s calming, how they settle into themselves when they forget they're being watched. Their focus is honest. Besides, I could see the whole room this way—old habits die hard.

My hand still ached from last night, especially around the knuckles. But once I set my fingers on the tablet and booted up the project files, the pain faded into the background like bad music in a cafe.

Today’s topic was visual hierarchy—how to guide someone’s eye without them realizing they’re being led. I like that. Design is manipulation with pretty colors and good intentions. The professor, a soft-spoken woman with inked arms that looked like modern art themselves, moved through the slides talking about balance, contrast, tension, rhythm. She mentioned Bauhaus, Swiss style, user journeys, and how people click what they’re told to click if you do it right.

Our exercise was to design a fictional campaign poster. Political slogans. Fake apps. Anti-smoking campaigns. That sort of thing. Most students went loud. I didn’t.

I called mine “Masks We Wear: A History of Persona in Art.” A museum exhibit that didn’t exist—but maybe should. I layered old theater masks, Venetian porcelain ones, Kabuki faces, digital avatars, all slightly translucent and overlapping, like ghosts whispering secrets to one another. The background was a deep, heavy teal. Elegant. Quiet. Like a lie told kindly.

It was good. Not perfect, but good. And it felt like me. Or maybe the version of me I was supposed to be here.

--

I met Peter during the break between classes. He’d just arrived and was already surrounded by his usual crew: Evan – his best buddy, a calm presence with a quick wit. Jason – the rich clown, always gossiping, always charming, his good heart barely hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and flamboyance. And then there was Tyler – the man who seemed to exist in a permanent state of brooding, like a noir detective without a case.

As I walked up, Jason’s voice carried over the crowd in his usual exasperated tone.

“Stark,” he said, using Peter’s last name like a school principal about to hand out detention, “I know you think it’ll just happen someday. Like death. But maybe—maybe—you could actually help things along a little?”

Peter looked unimpressed, arms crossed, jaw working on a response he hadn’t decided whether to say out loud.

“Hello Alexa,” Evan greeted me with a warm smile, always the diplomat of the group. Jason and Tyler followed with nods and quick “Hey”s, although Jason barely paused before looping me into his ongoing rant.

“Lex, please talk some sense into your boy here,” he said, throwing up his hands as if the weight of Peter’s stubbornness might actually crush him. “Tell him he has to come to the party tomorrow. Otherwise, he’s going to turn into a hermit, and we’ll never be able to hang out with him again. Or worse—he’ll age into some tragic, celibate urban myth.”

Ah. So it was about the girls.

Peter believed that love, like fate or karma, would find him in its own time. Jason, on the other hand, was a one-man romantic speedrun, burning through dating apps and flings like a man late for destiny. They had this argument often. Evan usually tried to mediate, while Tyler provided silent brooding commentary through intense glares and occasional mutters.

“I think you should go,” I said, siding with Jason—despite every instinct in me that usually wanted to contradict him just out of principle. “You need to relax a bit. I do too, actually. If I may join? Or am I one of the girls not invited?”

“Of course you can come, Lex. I was gonna text you today anyway,” Jason replied, smug as ever. You could say many things about Jason, but he was proud of both his parties and the contact list that populated them.

“Just bring this miserable fucker along, okay?”

“I’m not miserable,” Peter said flatly.

“And no fucker either, man! That’s what I’m saying!” Jason threw up his hands like he was trying to exorcise Peter’s introversion. I facepalmed internally. Evan sighed. Tyler... brooded.

Peter grunted. “Okay. I’ll come.”

“Finally!” Jason clapped like he’d just won a game show. “Don’t you worry, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“You better let him do it his way,” I shot back before I could stop myself. “Because if he does it your way, it’ll be not only his first, but also the shortest appearance at a party ever.”

Jason gasped like I'd just thrown a glove at his feet in 18th-century Paris. “You wound me, Lex.”

“Oh please,” I said with a smirk. “You live for the drama.”

He sighed with quiet surrender. “You’re absolutely right. That is my main goal—despite studying law. Did I tell you guys I study law today?”

“This joke got old in the first year, Jason,” Tyler finally chimed in, voice as flat as ever, delivering the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll.

“Just wanted to make sure you all remember. It's of utmost importance to… my parents.” Jason chuckled at his own line like it had never aged a day.

“What are you up to later today?” he asked, suddenly looking around the group like he was planning his next social crusade.

“I’m working after classes. No fun for me today,” I said, brushing a crumb off my skirt. Peter’s eyes met mine for a second, quietly disapproving, like I’d just told him I’d strangled his favorite childhood pet.

“I’ll be hitting the pool and then Muay Thai,” Peter added. Training was his cathedral—swimming and fighting, the two pillars of his devotion. Even though he studied law like the rest of them, his soul lived in discipline and sweat.

Evan, Jason, and Tyler had already made plans to catch a movie later. They stood around chatting about their courses, bouncing between casual complaints and inside jokes. I stayed a while longer, nibbling on a snack, not really adding much—just letting the ordinary, almost mundane warmth of it all settle into my skin like sun after a storm.

--

Symbolism in Art was held in an older lecture hall, the kind that creaked when you breathed wrong. The seats were uncomfortable, the kind of wooden fold-down chairs that punished your spine for daring to learn. But the room had soul—layers of chalk dust from years past, faded murals on the upper walls, and those tall arched windows that always made the light feel holy somehow.

The professor was an old man with more scarves than sense of time, always showing up ten minutes late and pretending it was on purpose. He spoke like he was unraveling a mystery he’d just remembered, always leaning on a cane he never really needed. Today, he began with the Symbolists of the 19th century—Moreau, Redon, Böcklin—talking about how they weren’t painting what they saw, but what they felt. Dreams, death, religion, lust, fear. Things with edges too soft for realism.

He said, “Symbolism is what we reach for when we can’t say it out loud.” I liked that. It reminded me of how I move through the world—never saying too much, always showing just enough.

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We analyzed Redon’s “The Cyclops”—a painting of a one-eyed creature watching a sleeping nymph in a field of color and light. The class talked about voyeurism, the gaze, the monster within. I wondered if the cyclops was meant to be feared, or if it was just lonely. Misunderstood. Like many of us are.

The professor asked us to sketch something symbolic of our current state of mind. I almost laughed. Dangerous prompt. I drew a cracked mask with flowers growing through the fissures. Subtle. Pretty. Palatable. But every petal was a lie I’d told someone this week.

Class ended with a quote scrawled on the board:

“The symbolist does not paint the thing itself, but the effect it produces.”

I wondered what kind of effect I left on people. What kind of painting I’d be, if someone tried to capture me.

--

I met with Sophie in the campus’s main yard during our next break. This place was a social beehive nestled between the University buildings. Plentiful benches and tables rested under the watchful shade of tall trees, their leafy arms offering shelter from the ever-raging sun. A quiet hum of wind moved between the buildings, like a curious student trying to learn its way out.

At the center stood a fountain, its streams shooting skyward, as if trying to return the water it once took. Around it, students sat, ate, chatted. Some lounged lazily in the grass. A group of boys threw a ball in the background. It was a retreat for the tormented souls of academia—and a gathering ground for friends.

Sophie was at one of the tables with her usual crew: Elena and Hannah. All three studied Business and Management—as if the world needed any more of either. But they were an interesting bunch. Elena was a rom-com addict; she knew every hit show by heart. Depending on who asked—and how dreamy the situation—she either secretly or quite openly admitted to wanting a love story just like the ones she binge-watched.

Hannah, on the other hand, was all business—fitting, given her field. Sharp, efficient, composed. A future CEO in casual clothes. Despite their differences, the three of them shared not just a table, but a loyal and longstanding friendship.

I dropped my bag beside the bench and sniffed the air.

“Do I smell coffee,” I asked, “or is that just my desperation playing tricks on me?”

Sophie slid a paper cup across the table toward me without a word, the smug glint in her eye doing all the talking. I took a cautious sip. Cinnamon. Bless her.

“Elena brought reinforcements,” Sophie said. “You’re welcome.”

“Espresso with cinnamon. Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Elena chimed in, adjusting her sunglasses like she was on the French Riviera instead of a campus bench.

“This might be the most generous thing anyone’s done for me this week,” I muttered.

“You say that every week,” Hannah noted without looking up from her tablet. Probably spreadsheets. Or a plan to take over the world. With Hannah, both were equally likely.

“Well,” I said, “the bar is low, but still. A win’s a win.”

“You look like you got hit by a train and then thrown down the stairs,” Elena said, squinting at me.

“Wow,” I replied, “thank you. That’s exactly the look I was going for.”

Sophie giggled and reached into her tote for a granola bar. “We were just debating the critical importance of color-coded planners.”

“We were not,” Hannah said flatly.

“Okay, I was,” Sophie corrected, unbothered.

“And I said if my calendar ever starts judging me, I’m tossing it out the window,” Elena added.

“Mine already does,” I said. “It keeps writing ‘bad decisions’ in red. It’s either sentient or synced to my subconscious.”

They all laughed, and for a moment, the breeze caught a few napkins that fluttered like lazy birds across the stone path. The fountain behind us kept doing its thing—spraying water high into the air, trying to look impressive while pigeons strutted around like they owned the place.

For once, things were calm. No running. No chasing. No crashing Camaros or shady men in jackets. Just four girls, coffee, and complaints about schedules.

I could pretend, just for now, that this was the real world.

--

Painting came last—and it always felt like the soft landing at the end of a long fall. It was held in a wide open studio space with tall ceilings and splatters of a hundred student attempts on the walls and floors. Paint-stained aprons hung by the entrance like robes of an order that worshipped color instead of gods. This room smelled like turpentine, wood, and possibility.

The instructor, Miss Halden, was the youngest faculty member in the department and looked like she belonged more in an underground art zine than a university catalog—messy black bob, sleeves always rolled, permanently streaked fingers. She had a dry way of speaking that made criticism feel like philosophy.

Today’s lesson: “Portraits of the unseen self.”

“How you think you look to the world is irrelevant,” she said. “I want what’s underneath. Paint your resentment. Paint your hunger. Paint your sleep deprivation if that’s what you’ve got left.”

Some students rolled their eyes, others got right to work. I sat by the windows, pulled on my apron, and let my thoughts pool onto the canvas like ink spreading through water.

I didn’t paint my face, not really. I painted a figure split down the center—half of it in cold steel blues, smooth and sharp like glass, the other half in muddy reds and golds, dripping and human. A hand reaching out from one side. A chain wrapped around the ankle of the other. It wasn’t subtle, but neither was my life right now.

As I worked, I felt my shoulders ease. Painting was the only time I could stop performing. Even Jess Hare had no place here. Only Lex. Messy, aching, too-clever-for-her-own-good Lex, raised on the edge of survival and learning how to turn pain into something beautiful.

That’s when the feeling came—the one I sometimes got when I created. It was more than just flow or focus. It began as a slow warmth at my core, spreading like molten honey through my veins. The sensation crept outward, pooling just beneath my skin and gathering at my fingertips. My hands tingled.

Sometimes, when I was deep in the act of making—when the world slipped away and it was just me and color and meaning—I could almost see it. A mist of light, nearly invisible but not quite. It shimmered faintly over my knuckles, like the full spectrum broken from white light, curling lazily around my palms in hues I didn’t have names for.

I’d blink or look down at it too sharply, and it vanished—like it had never been there to begin with. But the after-feeling stayed, electric and wrong, like catching a word whispered from the next room.

It always left me uneven. Shaken. Like something inside me was working on a level I didn’t understand—maybe something broken. I never told anyone, not even Peter. He’d think it was stress, or trauma. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was the part of me that came out only when I created—something no name had ever fit.

And this time it also passed as soon as I focused on it. IT did not break my work though.

Miss Halden walked by my easel, paused, then nodded once before moving on. No words. Just that single gesture. It meant everything.

By the time the class wrapped, sunlight had shifted to its warm, late-afternoon hue, casting gold over everything like the day had forgiven me for surviving it. My painting was still wet. I left it on the rack to dry, but the feeling of it—of having said something without speaking—clung to me long after I left the room.

--

I went to Penrose’s Finests right after classes. The gallery sat near the city center, in that part of town where buildings had long ago decided to reach for the sky—glass and steel monoliths clawing at clouds with unapologetic ambition. Down at street level, the city sweated. Traffic pulsed through its mechanical arteries, honking and hissing, a sensory assault of fumes and noise that felt like a punishment for simply existing. If I could dull those senses at will, I would—no hesitation. And yet, even buried beneath the grime and chaos, this part of town had its merits. This was the heart—the place where money changed hands, where power dressed in tailored suits, and where the wealthy came to both flaunt and multiply their fortunes.

Naturally, this is where Penrose operated.

The gallery sat in a side street just off one of the main veins of the city—a quiet pocket carved out between glass towers and old brick survivors. Penrose’s Finests didn’t advertise itself loudly. No flashing signs, no gaudy exterior. Just a polished black door with brass lettering so subtle you had to want to find it to see it. That was the point. Exclusivity disguised as modesty.

I buzzed the intercom. A faint click followed, and I pushed the door open into cool, dry air and the scent of varnish, canvas, and subtle power.

Inside, the gallery was all white walls, dark wood floors, and carefully staged spotlights that made every piece of art look like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. A woman in a navy blouse—Penrose’s assistant, Miriam—glanced up from her desk and gave me the barest nod before returning to her laptop. We had an understanding: she pretended I was a regular appraiser, and I pretended she didn’t know what I really did for Penrose.

“He’s in the back,” she murmured, not even looking up this time.

Of course he was.

I passed a massive oil piece that looked like chaos disguised as technique—one of those modern “emotional” canvases that cost enough to buy you a small island if the buyer was rich and stupid enough.

Behind a half-closed door at the far end of the gallery, Penrose’s voice was already bouncing off the walls.

“—And I told him, if he wanted authenticity, he should stop buying from online auctions and start using someone with taste.”

He was on the phone. I slipped in, and he didn’t stop talking. Just raised a hand to acknowledge me while pacing behind his antique desk. His office looked more like a gentleman’s study than a workspace—leather-bound books, whiskey decanter, a globe he probably spun for dramatic effect.

I took a seat in the worn green chair across from his desk, ignoring the fact that my legs were still sore from last night’s joyride into chaos.

He finished his call with a curt goodbye and turned to me, eyes sharp and appraising. Still in his usual three-piece suit—gray today, with a burgundy tie. Not a single wrinkle. The man could be bleeding and he’d still look composed.

He was well into his sixties by now, but you wouldn’t guess it by looking at him. At most, he passed for late forties. That’s what years of discipline did—he trained both his body and his mind with militant regularity, and it showed. Beneath the tailored suits and cultured air, he was still lean and muscular, a predator wrapped in velvet. Always ready, always coiled like a spring.

His face was angular, weathered like the edge of an old coin, crowned with a head full of thick silver hair that matched his eyes—cool, calculating, silver like the money he loved almost as much as the art. He’d started wearing a beard recently too, immaculately trimmed, like everything else in his curated life.

“He’s a moron,” he snapped into his phone, pacing slowly as I entered the gallery office. “Tell him to start using his brain. He might be surprised by the results.”

From the tone, I gathered Thomas—his other assistant—had bungled something. Thomas was a strange mix of muscle and charisma, a cross between a bodyguard and a salesman. He’d been sent to meet a client, but judging from Penrose’s expression, that meeting now required less charm and more force.

“Yes. Do that. Call me when it’s done.” He ended the call, then turned his full attention to me.

“Alexandra.” He always used my full name. He did that with everyone—names were like titles to him. Formal, deliberate, exact. There was only one exception: his late son, Mikey. When he spoke of him—which was rare—he always dropped the formality, softened just slightly. The wound still bled beneath all that armor.

“When we last spoke,” he continued, “you told me you’d be attending the auction on the 4th. From what I’ve gathered, it was either a grand plan that went surprisingly well... or a small job that turned into complete chaos.” He paused, exhaled slowly through his nose. The anger from the call was still lingering behind his eyes, but he let it slide away like smoke dissipating in a room. “So tell me, good girl. Which was it?”

“It was chaos, Mr. Penrose,” I said plainly.

He finally sat down across from me, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, resting his beard atop them like a thoughtful perch.

“Oh,” he murmured, with that glint of intrigue in his eye. “Do tell.”

He adored the craft of stealing—more than the profit, more than the art. For him, the thrill was in the choreography: the planning, the pressure, the improvisation when things fell apart. The act was the art.

“I was hired through an intermediary—Miss Honey. The one you introduced me to. She wanted me to lift a necklace from the gala. All the intel she gave me checked out... but it was missing some very important details.”

He tilted his head slightly. “What kind of details?”

“The target was mob-affiliated. FBI and police were on-site.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Anything else?”

“The buyer arranged the getaway. The driver and the hired muscle weren’t planning on letting me leave alive—unless I left the necklace behind.”

“And yet here you are,” he said, mildly impressed. “Show me the item.”

I reached into the hidden pocket in my jacket and produced the necklace—a silver Chinese dragon coiled protectively around three pearl eggs. He took it with the delicate reverence of a priest holding a relic, inspecting it under the gallery’s crisp white lights.

“I’m guessing Miss Honey didn’t tell you who the buyer was?”

“Of course not.”

“What was the agreed sum?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Interesting,” he said, turning the piece in his hand. “This has more personal value than material. The craftsmanship is excellent, but the materials alone wouldn’t fetch even ten grand. Sentimental or symbolic, perhaps. I’ll contact Honey and handle the transaction myself.”

He paused again, eyes scanning mine. “Anything else I should know?”

“I might have killed the driver and the muscle.”

He didn't flinch. “Understandable.”

No questions. No concern about witnesses or cleanup. Just a calm certainty that I had done what was necessary. That’s the kind of faith you earn after years in someone’s shadow, doing their dirty work and surviving things most people wouldn’t believe.

He trusted me to handle myself. He should. After everything we’d been through, anything less would be an insult.

“I have the mask you wanted—the Kabuki one. The rabbit.” Penrose said it almost offhandedly as he reached into one of the deep drawers behind his desk. When he handed it to me, my breath caught for a second. It was exactly the one I had described in passing weeks ago. I’d wanted to make it myself, but time and resources had slipped away from me, as they often did. Somehow, he’d found it instead.

It was a beautiful, original Japanese piece—white lacquer, smooth and cool to the touch. The face was that of a stylized rabbit, flat and expressionless except for a small, delicately sculpted nose and a subtle, almost eerie smile. Not something you'd expect on a rabbit, but that was the point. The eye holes were wide and black from the outside, completely transparent from within. The mask was fastened with white leather straps, and the upright ears gave it height, character—presence.

It was flawless. Strange. Otherworldly. Perfect.

“I never asked you for one,” I said, still studying it.

“You don’t have to make everything yourself,” he replied, his tone calm but matter-of-fact. “I can give you presents from time to time. Last week was your birthday.”

He wasn’t a sentimental man—not by a long shot. But once in a while, he showed his version of care. This was one of those rare moments.

“I’m grateful, Mr. Penrose. I’ll put it to good use.”

“One of your personas? Jess Hare?”

“No,” I shook my head slightly, still holding the mask with both hands. “Jess is for client-facing gigs. Talk, flirt, deal. She’s human. This…” I looked at the mask again. “This will just be Usagi. For the times that don’t call for a human face at all.”

He nodded, understanding perfectly. There was no need for further explanation. He knew what it meant to wear a face that didn’t blink or smile unless you told it to.

“You have something like that planned already?”

“No,” I admitted, “but I’ll do a test run tonight.”

“Good,” he said, then stood and straightened his coat like the conversation was concluding. “I’ll call you after I hear more from Honey.”

I tucked the mask away, careful, reverent.

“Take care, Alexandra.”

“And you, Mr. Penrose.”

--

I stopped by home first—just long enough to unpack, eat something warm, and change. The light in the apartment had already begun to shift when I left again, painting everything with that soft golden hue that signals the world is winding down… even if I wasn’t.

Tonight, I wore my Iceberg jeans jacket, slightly worn at the cuffs but still sharp. Underneath, a plain white T-shirt with a smiling cartoon bunny—cute in a way that made people underestimate you. Comfortable black trousers and my go-to pair of lightweight sneakers finished the look. My hair was loose, tucked under a black baseball cap, and a small crossbody bag hung lightly over my shoulder, swaying as I walked.

I didn’t look like someone who might be out for anything more than a casual night—certainly not someone preparing for a test run of a new mask. That was the point.

My body still ached. Deep in the muscles, down in the joints. A tired soreness that no hot shower or sleep could quite cure—yet. The aftermath of last night’s chaos clung to me like the smell of smoke after a fire. I’d pushed through worse before, but tonight wouldn’t be about theatrics or bravado. There would be no rooftop acrobatics, no dramatic entries or cinematic flourishes.

Just calm observation. Light steps. A quiet hunt.

I found my target surprisingly quickly—a commercial billboard crowning one of the last-century residential buildings, looming like an insult over the old bricks and aging windows. It wasn’t just an eyesore—it was a middle finger to the people below. Buy the new phone or get left behind. Be a loser in the great race for the newest thing.

I hated that mentality. This unending compulsion to upgrade, replace, and consume. People should see the beauty of what they are, not what they own. Maybe it was a strange thought for a thief to have—but tonight, I wasn't here to take anything physical. I came to steal urgency and compulsion… and offer something better in return: stillness. Reflection.

Once night fell and the city dimmed into anonymity, I climbed up. The billboard loomed above me, lit only by the streetlights below and the faint pulse of the city’s glow. I strapped on my mask—Usagi. Just before leaving, I’d dabbed a few strokes of color across the cheeks—lazy rainbow whiskers, my small signature flourish.

The work began with black. A cleansing void. I sprayed out the advertisement in its entirety, wiping it clean of its demand for obedience. Then the vision came to life.

From the darkness emerged the Cyclops—my city’s sleeping giant, slowly waking from a long digital slumber. Its spine and limbs were made of buildings, stacked and layered like vertebrae. Roads coiled around its form like living veins. Its face: concrete, steel, and glass, with an eye just starting to open. Wires tangled its limbs. Clock faces embedded in its torso. Bits of smartphones and digital debris oozed down its frame in rainbow melt, dissolving. A release. A transformation.

But the light that came wasn’t from the usual suspects—not streetlamps, not neon signs. It was sunlight—but not as we know it. It poured from behind the giant like liquid color—turquoise, magenta, molten gold—seeping into the gray, flooding it with possibility.

In cracks along the sidewalks, new life unfurled. Birds took shape in patches of color. Flowers bloomed from fractured walls. Human silhouettes—stitched together from warm ochres, emeralds, ultramarine—danced up from alleyways, breathing a new kind of air.

I stepped back, breath shallow, and watched it unfold beneath my hands.

The lower half of the image remained subdued—navy, steel, digital blue—still half asleep. But above… the awakening had begun. Vivid strokes rippled like waves across the surface. My Cyclops was not rising with rage—but with hope.

Satisfied, I walked forward and signed my name in the bottom corner: Usagi. An artist signs her work.

And then I saw it again.

My hands.

A thousand tiny specks of colored light shimmered across my skin like dust caught in a sunbeam. They danced, sparkled, shifted. I stared—but this time, it didn’t vanish when I focused. The mist surrounded me, warm and humming, like creation itself had poured into me and didn’t want to leave.

I twirled, unable to help myself—childlike, light, free. I dragged my fingers through the air, leaving behind trails of color, fading like afterimages. It was beautiful. It was real. It was mine.

And I wasn’t done.

I turned back to the painting and looked to the sky I had yet to finish. It needed more. Clouds, yes—but not ordinary ones. I painted them as symbols: question marks, musical notes, open hands.

Let curiosity reign, I thought.

Let it overthrow the tyranny of endless wanting.

Let those who pass below, even for a moment, feel the urge to wonder—rather than consume.

Let the city—and the people who lived here—wake up, just a little.

--

The light around me faded as quietly as it had come, vanishing the moment I stepped back from my finished work. I didn’t feel disappointed. Just… still.

Now I sat at a corner bar, a good distance away, where the music pulsed low and lazy through outdoor speakers. My mask was stashed safely in my bag, tucked away like a secret. I sipped on a Mojito through a straw, its mint sharp against my tongue, cooling the heat still lingering in my chest from the climb, the spray, the creation.

People passed. Rushed. Laughed. Argued. They didn’t notice what I’d made for them—not yet, anyway.

They clinked glasses and took selfies and stumbled into taxis with slurred goodbyes. The streets below the billboard still pulsed with traffic—engines coughing, lights flickering like city synapses firing endlessly. The rhythm was the same as it had always been. A loop. A dance. A blur.

And yet… I had changed something. A tiny sliver of this city now carried something else—something born not of profit or noise, but of intention.

A message.

A dream.

It was only one painting. One whisper in the chaos.

But it was enough to make me feel alive. Seen. Even if no one had looked yet.

And in that moment, that was everything.