Chapter One - Janice
The city swallows me whole the moment I step off the plane.
I expect New York to be loud, crowded, overwhelming in the way small-town people always warn about. What I don’t expect is how utterly indifferent it is. Millions of people moving in choreographed chaos, and not one of them cares that I exist. The realization settles cold in my chest as I drag my suitcase through Penn Station, dodging elbows and briefcases, trying not to look as lost as I feel.
Nineteen years old, an ocean away from everything familiar, and already wondering if I’ve made a mistake.
My reflection catches in a darkened shop window as I pass: chestnut hair falling loose around my shoulders, eyes too wide, mouth pressed thin with determination I don’t quite feel. The dress I chose this morning, soft blue and carefully ironed, already looks rumpled.
My hips strain against the fabric where it hugs too tight, pulls across my chest in a way that makes me hyperaware of every curve, the soft give of my stomach I can never quite flatten no matter how many hours I spend pretending I don’t care. I tug at the hem self-consciously before catching myself.
I’m not here to blend in. I’m here to matter.
The internship came through at the last minute, a miracle wrapped in vague promises and a stipend barely enough to cover rent in a building where the shower only works if you hit the pipes twice. Urban development consulting. I wrote the cover letter three times, highlighting my sociology degree, my research on gentrification, my desperate need to understand how cities work—how power moves through them like blood through veins.
They hired me to take notes and to observe. I have every intention of doing exactly that.
***
The office is glass and steel, perched high enough that the streets below look like toys. My supervisor, a woman named Marissa with sharp heels and sharper eyes, hands me a tablet and a lanyard without smiling.
“You’ll shadow me today,” Marissa says, already walking. “There’s a private event this afternoon—redevelopment project in Brooklyn. It’s controversial. Lot of money changing hands, lot of people pretending it isn’t.” She glances back, assessing. “You’re here to watch, not participate. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good. Wear something better next time.” Her gaze flicks down to my dress, then away. “Something that fits the room. You want them to take you seriously, dress like you already belong.”
My cheeks burn, but I nod. Marissa is already three steps ahead, heels clicking against marble in a rhythm that sounds like a warning.
I spend the morning buried in spreadsheets and zoning reports, trying to decode language that feels designed to obscure rather than clarify. Marissa answers maybe one question in five, and only when I’ve already exhausted every other option.
By lunch, my head is pounding and my eyes are crossing, but I don’t complain.
I can’t afford to complain.
At two o’clock, Marissa stands abruptly. “Time to go. Stay close, don’t wander, and for God’s sake, don’t ask questions unless I tell you to.”
***
The event takes place in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and industrial lighting designed to look effortless. It isn’t. Everything here is calculated; the arrangement of chairs, the placement of bar stations, even the way sunlight slants through the windows to make the room feel warm instead of cold.
I hang back near the entrance, tablet clutched against my chest, watching.
Men in tailored suits cluster in small groups, voices low but animated. Lawyers, I guess. Developers. The kind of people who speak in acronyms and move millions with handshakes. Women move between them—some in sharp blazers, some in dresses that cost more than my rent—carrying authority or charm depending on what the moment requires.
I feel the weight of my own body suddenly, the way my dress clings to my waist and hips, pulls across my chest, the soft curve of my stomach pressing against the fabric. Here, in this room full of people who look like they’ve been assembled by the same architect, I feel conspicuous. Visible in all the wrong ways.
A server passes with champagne flutes balanced on a tray, offering one to me with a practiced smile. I shake my head, throat tight. I’m not here to drink. I’m here to disappear.
Marissa is already deep in conversation with a silver-haired man whose smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I stay where I am, stylus poised over the tablet screen, trying to look useful.
That’s when I notice the tension.
It isn’t loud. It’s the opposite—a held breath, a tightening of shoulders, the way certain people angle themselves toward a man standing near the far windows. He isn’t the oldest person in the room. In fact, he isn’t doing anything to draw attention at all.
Yet everyone is watching him.
Dimitri Rudenko
