The sky was the color of old bruises outside Jayla's window when Eloise finally finished the breakfast ritual—the symbolic last meal before her disappearance. Jayla watched her friend with a grim, protective intensity that Eloise rarely saw.
"Go," Jayla said, her voice dropping to a low, decisive register. "Shower. Pack the go-bag I made you. You leave at 10 AM sharp when the trains are packed and no one's looking."
Eloise nodded, throat too full for words. The time for sentiment was over; this was purely logistics now.
She showered until the water ran agonizingly cold, punishing herself for the fear and the unwelcome flashes of desire Luciano had ignited. She dressed in the plainest clothes Jayla owned—oversized, faded denim jeans, thick-soled sneakers, and a nondescript dark gray hoodie pulled up to cover her hair. She felt like a ghost of her former self.
