The client clears his throat. Loudly.
I paste on a professional smile. “Sorry. Reflex.”
Jacey backs off, mouthinglaterat me.
Later never really comes.
Because the city keeps moving, and so do I. That’s the trick—if you don’t stop, the quiet can’t catch you. I reopen the salon full-time. I take walk-ins. I argue with suppliers. I yell at a contractor for tracking dust through my space. I live.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, Tugun files paperwork.
I find out because Lazarus tells me, like it’s a weather update.
“He submitted for a commercial permit,” Lazarus says over a secure call, tone dry. “Textiles. Apparel. Personal brand consulting.”
I blink at the screen. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“What’s the name?” I ask, already bracing myself.
There’s a pause. Then: “‘Second Cut.’”
I snort. “Of course it is.”
“He’s also registered with three nonviolence advocacy groups,” Lazarus adds. “And donated a not-insignificant amount of money to victim compensation funds.”
I lean back against my counter, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I almost died for a man who’s now pivoting into ethical fashion.”
“Life is strange,” Lazarus says.
“You’re telling me.”
He hesitates. “For what it’s worth… Voltar would be relieved.”
My chest tightens at his name, sharp and familiar and still too close to the surface.
“Tell him yourself,” I say lightly.
Lazarus doesn’t respond.
The line goes quiet.
Another week slides by.
Then my body decides to stage a hostile takeover.
It starts with nausea.
Not delicate nausea. Not movie nausea. The kind that hits like a hammer and gives you exactly three seconds to regret every life choice you’ve ever made before you’re on your knees in the bathroom, dry-heaving like you’ve been poisoned.
I assume food poisoning. Or stress. Or the universe having a sense of humor.
The third time it happens in a week, I’m less amused.
I sit on the cold tile floor afterward, back against the tub, sweating and shaky, staring at my reflection in the mirror like it might explain itself.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
