Lena Carrow stepped out of the airport shuttle and paused at the curb, letting the sharp smell of salt and asphalt settle into her lungs. Havenport looked colder than she remembered from the photographs, its skyline cut into straight, deliberate lines that felt both promising and severe. She tightened her grip on the strap of her single suitcase. Traveling light made sense. She had no intention of carrying the past into her new life, even if it followed her like a stubborn shadow.

The Harborline District rose ahead, glass towers catching the late morning light. Trent & Cole Capital occupied one of the tallest buildings, an angular blue monolith she could already pick out from where she stood. The job was supposed to be a clean slate, an opportunity to build something by herself. That was the idea, anyway. The reality was that her chest had been tight since sunrise, the pressure sitting beneath her ribs in a way that felt too familiar.

She pulled out her inhaler-sized emergency kit—white, compact, medical—and checked that everything was in place. She did it without thinking, the way some people checked their phone battery or their keys. A quiet ritual of necessity. Once confirmed, she slipped it back into her coat pocket and exhaled slowly through her nose.

The walk to the metro took longer than it should have. She wasn’t slow, but everything felt slightly amplified. The hum of traffic. The clatter of luggage wheels. Someone’s laughter echoing off a concrete column. Her body had a way of interpreting stress as a siren, as if warning her that emotions were a hazard she couldn’t afford. She reminded herself that today wasn’t one of those days. She was fine. She had to be fine.

When she reached the station platform, her phone buzzed with a message from Tessa Monroe. The timing was too perfect, almost suspiciously so.

You in the city yet? Do not ghost me. I will hunt you down.

Lena’s lips twitched despite herself. She replied with a single word: Arrived.

There was a flurry of dots as Tessa typed. Good. I’ll come by after work. Don’t unpack anything ugly.

The train arrived, saving Lena from having to think of a response. She boarded and found a seat near the window. The glass reflected a faint version of herself—dark hair pulled back, tired eyes, a faint mark on her temple where she’d pressed her hand earlier. The train lurched forward.

Havenport blurred past. Rows of brick buildings gave way to residential blocks, then to the steel heart of the city. People moved with the brisk efficiency of those who lived in places where time was more currency than concept. Lena tried to mimic it, straightening her back, rolling her shoulders.

Her stop appeared sooner than she expected. She stepped onto the platform, followed the signs, and made her way to the street level. The air tasted different here—less ocean, more polish. Her hotel was a few blocks north, a short-term rental she deliberately chose for its lack of personality. Neutral spaces were easier. They didn’t ask questions.

Inside the room, she placed her suitcase by the bed and stood still. The quiet pressed around her. It wasn’t comforting. Silence gave the mind permission to wander, and hers never wandered anywhere pleasant. She opened the window instead, letting in city noise, grounding herself in something external.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t Tessa.

Trent & Cole Capital: Final round interview confirmed for Monday, 9:00 AM. Please arrive 10 minutes early.

Lena reread the message even though she didn’t need to. She knew it by heart the first time. Final round interview. Again. The process had already stretched for weeks. She’d made it through the written exam, the case analysis, the panel interview. This was the last step. The one that mattered most.

She placed the phone on the bedside table and sat down. Her pulse jumped, too quick, a warning. She pressed her thumb against the side of her neck, counting until the rhythm steadied. Not fear. Preparation. She repeated the word in her mind until her breathing aligned with it.

She showered, changed into clean clothes, and went through the motions of settling in. Fold. Hang. Rinse. Repeat. But when she reached the last item in her suitcase, her fingers hesitated.

It was a photograph. Not framed—just tucked inside a thin sleeve. Her father stood next to her in it, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She was small in the picture, maybe seven, hair in uneven pigtails. Her smile looked too wide, too trusting. His eyes were tired but warm.

The ache that touched her ribs was soft at first, then sharper.

She put the photograph face down on the table.

No spiraling. Not tonight.

She turned away, focusing on the blank wall opposite the window. She could almost pretend she was someone lighter, someone who didn’t carry a medical chart that read “emotion-triggered anaphylactoid reactions.” But pretending was never sustainable.

Her body was an unreliable narrator. Sadness made her throat swell, made her skin flush, made the world tilt. Fear did similar things. Anger was unpredictable. Even nostalgia could be dangerous in concentrated doses. The safest path had always been control—tight, relentless, often exhausting control.

She checked the emergency kit again.

A knock startled her.

Room 1912? Tessa’s voice rang through the door. Open up before I embarrass you in front of strangers.

Lena unlocked the door. Tessa swept in, carrying a paper bag and radiating the type of energy Lena had never successfully replicated.

You look like you haven’t eaten, Tessa said, dropping the bag on the bed. And like you’ve been overthinking all morning. Which is your brand, but still.

Lena attempted a neutral expression. I arrived an hour ago.

Exactly. An hour is long enough for you to spiral three times. Now eat.

They sat across from each other, the fading sunlight cutting an amber line between them. Tessa talked—mostly about work, mostly about office politics—and Lena let the words fill the room. It helped, more than she’d admit.

By the time Tessa left, the sky outside had darkened. The city lights blinked awake one by one. Lena closed the door softly and leaned her forehead against it. Her breathing felt steadier.

Monday was close. Too close. The final interview meant she was one step away from walking into Trent & Cole’s upper floors, the place where decisions were made, where careers accelerated or crashed. The place where a man named Silas Trent held enough authority to alter almost anything.

She had seen his name on her interview schedule.

But the name had struck her long before that.

Trent.

A coincidence, she had told herself.

She didn’t allow herself to consider the alternative.

When she finally lay in bed, her body remained alert, as if waiting for impact. She curled onto her side, pulling the sheets up to her chin.

Tomorrow would come whether she was ready or not. The city didn’t care. The company didn’t care. Her past didn’t care.

But she cared.

And that was the problem.

Sleep took longer to find her, but it eventually did, settling like a thin layer of dust over a room that still held its shape beneath.