I turned myself into a ghost.

Not of spirit — of movement.

At Parsons, I mapped out my days like a fugitive. I memorized Soren Bellandi’s schedule with the precision of a thief. I knew which hallway he crossed at 8:47 a.m., which elevator he favored, how long his coffee lingered on the twenty-third floor before meetings.

And I avoided it all.

I used the service elevator that smelled of bleach and old mops. I timed my bathroom breaks like military operations. I ate lunch at my desk with ...