I stood in front of the mirror in my apartment, staring at the stranger I'd chosen to become tonight. My once-blonde hair had been replaced by a dark brown wig, cut to chin-length. The bright blue of my eyes was masked beneath deep brown lenses. The makeup—subtle, but refined—shifted the balance of my features just enough. I'd always loved how a few strokes of a brush could transform someone entirely. You could paint new contours, a new face. The dress I wore was dark, understated. Everything had led up to this moment. The past few days of preparation had drained me, but it would all pay off.
I'd stumbled upon the event by chance—a private, invitation-only award ceremony with an exclusive after-party. Getting out, being near him again… it was exactly what I needed. A night full of strangers—and the one face that had become my universe. I'd planned every detail. Nothing was left to chance. Taking on the identity of a hotel maid had been the hardest part, but I'd learned how to slip through the cracks of any system. During one of my breaks, I'd wandered into the laundry room and casually made a copy of the staff schedule. The hotel operated like a well-oiled machine—just like any machine, all it took was shifting a few gears to change the whole rhythm.
In a quiet corner of the employee area, I eavesdropped on the other staff. Fate smiled at me when I overheard the name of a maid who had fallen ill at the last minute. I knew no one would question who stepped in as long as the work got done. Two days before the event, I wore the plain, unremarkable uniform and pushed a cart loaded with towels and cleaning supplies through the hotel's hallways. The band's suite was on my list—a "coincidence" I'd carefully arranged after modifying the schedule.
The suite was empty—likely they were off rehearsing or attending another meeting. All I needed was this opening. I worked methodically, inspecting everything, not just for clues, but for meaning. For what wasn't obvious. On a chair lay a half-open bag with a small USB stick attached to a keychain—clearly marked with the event's logo. How foolish, haven't they heard about all the psychopaths running around? Some of us wear uniforms and carry towels. I took out my phone and snapped photos, careful to preserve every detail so I could return everything to its original place. I'd come prepared. My laptop was hidden in the bottom shelf of the cart, tucked beneath freshly folded towels. Another loophole in the system—no one cared what staff carried as long as it looked like work.
I connected the USB stick, positioning the cart just inside the door to give myself time to hide the laptop if someone came in. Ever since my last encounter with Jhio in the hallway, I'd started treating unknown variables more seriously.
One file immediately stood out. I sat on the sofa, opened it, and nearly laughed. The so-called "security" had three-click vulnerabilities. The screen displayed a list of QR codes, each assigned to a name and function for the evening. Clear, sharp. I picked a name unconnected to the band—just some minor organizer. One screenshot later, I was done. The stick went back in its place, the suite left as if untouched.
Just before leaving, I paused. The silence in the room was hypnotic, like an invitation to linger, to dig deeper into secrets that didn't want to be found. My eyes roamed across the personal belongings on the table: sunglasses, a plain notebook, a scarf. Nothing remarkable. My gaze slid to the nightstand. A half-drunk water bottle. A lip balm, its cap half unscrewed. My feet carried me forward before I even realized it.
I hesitated only a second before reaching for it. A mundane object. A small thing. Intimate, yet discarded so carelessly. I removed the cap fully, brought it close. It smelled like mint—and something else. Something sweet and undefinable. I gently traced the edge, imagining him doing the same not long ago. One more thread tying us together. I returned it carefully and turned toward the table again. My fingers brushed over the scarf. It was soft. Expensive. Probably worth more than I made in a week. I lifted it slowly, pressed it to my face and inhaled. A faint scent lingered—maybe cologne, maybe just him. It sent a shiver down my spine. I placed it back exactly as it had been and forced my heart to slow. One last glance to make sure everything looked untouched—and I was gone, laptop once again hidden beneath the towels. Walking down the corridor, I felt something I rarely did: anticipation.
Back at my apartment, I dug up everything I could online about the event. A quick visit to their website confirmed it—every guest received a personalized QR code, scanned at the entrance. I enlarged the screenshot I'd taken. It took hours to get the details right. The printed version wasn't flawless, but it didn't have to be. Just enough to pass the first checkpoint. People saw what they wanted to see—especially at events like this. I booked a car with a private driver. Hired three bodyguards to escort me. Presentation was everything. The forged QR code and a fake invitation letter did the rest.
All that remained was to step into character. Perfection wasn't optional—it was essential. And if anyone noticed? That risk was part of the thrill.
I glanced in the mirror one last time. I looked pretty, but not stunning. Just enough to merit a second look—no more. Showtime. The car ride blurred past. My pulse raced as the driver announced our arrival. I nodded, composed. My expression blank, distant. I wasn't here for pleasure. I was here to work. To blend in. To get close.
The arrival was a choreographed illusion. The tinted car rolled up slowly. I stared through the glass at the paparazzi and bystanders. My heart pounded—but in rhythm, controlled. I breathed deep, eyes locked forward. My three bodyguards stood tall, sharply dressed in black suits with discreet earpieces. Professional. Intimidating. Perfect. No one questions a woman flanked by shadows.
The driver opened my door. One of them extended a hand. I stepped out gracefully. A few heads turned. Another car pulled up behind. The attention shifted. Just as I'd planned. I blended in—just another guest, rich and irrelevant.
I approached security with confident steps, my expression calm, movements fluid. One bodyguard stepped ahead, holding out the fake invitation and QR code.
"For Miss Lee."
The guard scanned it.
A soft beep.
The light blinked green.
"Welcome, Miss Lee," he said with a nod, waving me through.
I stepped past the barrier, my security detail in tow.
The first gate had opened.
The hardest part was over.
A smile ghosted over my lips—before I erased it again.
Miss Lee didn't smile.
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