(Lena’s POV)

I couldn’t stop staring at the photograph.

The edges of the glossy paper dug into my fingertips, sharper than they had any right to be. My face—my face—stared back at me, caught mid-step outside Vance Tower. Head down, bag strap clutched in my hand, a little blurred but undeniably me.

I wasn’t posing for anyone. I wasn’t aware of anyone. I’d thought I was invisible that night, just another exhausted employee slipping home through the Manhattan shadows.

But ...