(Elara POV)
By the time I leave the office, it's dark.
It usually is.
The executive floor empties slowly, people drifting out in clusters, still talking about deals and dinners and plans that extend beyond the building. I wait until the hallway thins before I pack my things, careful not to draw attention even on the way out.
Habit, more than fear.
Outside, the city feels louder, harsher. Cars hiss past on wet pavement. Neon lights flicker against glass storefronts. I pull my coat tighter around myself and head toward the subway entrance.
I take the subway because it's cheaper.
Because it doesn't ask questions.
Because no one notices a woman standing quietly in the corner, holding her bag a little too close.
The platform smells like metal and old air. I stand near a pillar, back pressed lightly against the cold surface, watching people without really seeing them. Couples lean into each other. Someone scrolls on their phone, laughing softly at something I'll never hear. A man hums under his breath, off-key but content.
When the train arrives, I let the crowd surge in first. There's always room for one more body standing, pressed into a space that isn't meant to be comfortable.
I stand the whole way.
Sitting feels indulgent somehow, like claiming space I haven't earned. So I grip the overhead bar and sway with the motion of the train, eyes fixed on the darkened window where my reflection stares back at me.
I look tired.
My building looks tired too when I reach it.
The brick is chipped near the entrance, paint peeling in thin curls that remind me of old receipts stuffed into drawers. The hallway light flickers as I step inside, humming faintly like it's deciding whether it wants to stay on or give up entirely.
I don't wait for the elevator.
It's slow on good days, unreliable on bad ones, and tonight I don't have the patience to gamble. I take the stairs instead, climbing past doors that all look the same, past the faint smells of cooking and detergent and other people's lives.
By the time I reach my floor, my legs ache in a dull, familiar way.
Inside my apartment, the silence settles immediately.
It's small. Old. Just barely enough space to exist without colliding with myself. The walls are thin, the floors uneven. The radiator clicks when it feels like it. I hang my coat carefully on the hook by the door—the same coat I've worn for three winters now, the lining thinning at the cuffs.
I don't turn on all the lights.
I never do.
The kitchen bulb casts enough glow to see by, spilling into the living area in a soft, tired halo. I kick off my shoes and line them up neatly against the wall, toeing them into place until they look intentional.
Order helps.
Dinner is instant noodles again.
I pour boiling water over them and wait, leaning against the counter while the kettle clicks itself quiet. I eat standing up, fork in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling absently while my mind does the math it always does.
Rent.
Utilities.
Transit.
Groceries.
Medical bills.
The numbers shift slightly each month, but the conclusion never does. There's no room for mistakes. No cushion for indulgence. No safety net waiting underneath me if I misstep.
I rinse the cup and set it upside down to dry.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Mom
I answer on the second ring.
"Did you eat?" she asks, like she always does.
"Yes," I say without thinking.
There's a pause on the other end of the line. She knows the sound of my voice too well to believe me completely.
"You work too hard," she says gently. "You don't have to do everything alone."
I press my shoulder against the counter, forcing a smile into my tone. "I'm okay. Really. Work is just busy."
She hums softly, unconvinced but unwilling to push. We talk about small things after that—the weather, a nurse she likes at the clinic, a show she's halfway through and keeps forgetting the plot of.
Normal things.
Things that let her believe I'm stable.
When we hang up, the apartment feels quieter than before.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the wall opposite me. The paint there is cracked in thin lines, branching outward like a map. I've traced them often enough to know where they lead.
I open my laptop and log into my bank account.
The balance loads slowly.
When it finally appears, my chest tightens anyway.
I close the browser before I can linger on it, before the panic sharpens into something louder. I've learned that staring doesn't make numbers kinder. It just makes them heavier.
I change into pajamas and lie back on the bed, shoes tucked neatly beneath it, bag placed exactly where it always goes. Above me, the ceiling is a familiar constellation of cracks and water stains. I count them without really trying.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up early.
Tomorrow, I'll pull on my coat and my careful expression and return to Hale Industries.
Tomorrow, I'll remind myself to keep my head down.
But even as the thought settles, something itches at the back of my mind.
The meeting.
Mark's smile.
Vivienne's voice, low and deliberate.
And Alexander Hale, standing in the hallway like he belonged to it in a way I never could.
I close my eyes and force the images away.
This job isn't about him.
It isn't about anyone.
It's about stability. About survival. About keeping the ground under my feet solid enough that it doesn't give way without warning.
I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket closer.
Tomorrow, I'll be invisible again.
That's how I survive.
And survival, for now, has to be enough.