Where They Watch Her Fall
The morning sun had barely begun to stain the sky with amber when Nephis stepped off the third bus of the morning. The soles of her shoes scraped against the uneven pavement, damp with early city dew and the remnants of last night's filth. The kind of city grime that clung to your skin, your hair, and if you stayed too long—your soul.
She walked with purpose, though her steps were heavy. Each footfall a testament to the four hours of sleep she'd stolen between jobs. The early vendors were just beginning to drag their carts into place, the metallic screech of wheels echoing through narrow alleyways. The scent of roasted peanuts, stale cigarettes, and wet concrete mingled in the air.
She didn't notice it. She was too used to it.
What people did notice, though—what always made them pause—was her.
Nephis moved through the world like a secret meant to be discovered.
She was breathtaking. Not in the polished, surgically-crafted way the internet adored—but in a way that felt accidental. Unintended. Dangerous.
Her skin was a shade of deep bronze that shimmered gold beneath the sun, flawless even after long nights without rest. Her face was carved with soft, haunting features—high cheekbones that framed full, naturally pink lips, and a pair of eyes so dark they almost looked black. Eyes that always seemed to be hiding stories, stories no one had earned the right to hear. Her thick hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back into a loose, unwashed braid that fell across one shoulder. Strands had escaped it, curling around her temples like soft smoke.
Even now—dressed in an oversized men's jacket that hung limp on her slim frame and black jeans faded from too many washes—she caught attention.
People stared.
Men turned to look longer than they should. Women glanced and then looked again, wondering how someone could be so radiant beneath so much struggle.
Nephis didn't notice them anymore. Not because she was used to it—but because it didn't matter. Pretty hadn't saved her. Pretty hadn't paid the bills. Pretty didn't stop hunger.
Pretty was a cage.
She shifted the weight of her old canvas messenger bag over her aching shoulder and checked the time. 7:13 a.m. Her shift at the cleaning agency began at seven, but Mr. Vaughn didn't dock her pay if she arrived before 7:20.
Fifteen minutes of grace. That's what her life had been reduced to.
The cleaning job was her fourth gig this week. She scrubbed floors in corporate buildings no one noticed were ever dirty. She cleaned glass that billionaires smudged and secretaries polished again right after her. She picked gum off concrete. Wiped blood off bathroom tiles in a fitness gym that smelled like protein shakes and sweat.
And in a few hours, she'd be back on the street for her final shift—passing out flyers to people who would never look her in the eye.
Her body hurt.
Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy way. But in the dull, throbbing, this-is-just-how-it-is kind of way.
The ache behind her knees. The rawness between her thumb and forefinger from scrubbing. The tightness in her lower back that pulsed with each step.
And still, she kept moving.
Because she had to.
Because she had no choice.
Because her rent was late. Again.
Because her mother had disappeared two years ago and her father had left long before that.
Because she had no one.
By 10:00 a.m., she had finished cleaning three floors of the building and stopped by a public restroom to change into her branded promo T-shirt.
It was baggy. Bright yellow. Too loud for someone who didn't like being seen anymore.
She tied a knot at her waist to keep it from swallowing her whole, tugged her braid tighter, and stepped back out onto the street with a fistful of flyers for a wellness drink no one wanted.
She hated this part.
The asking.
The smiling.
The pretending.
That's when the world shifted.
It started with the sound—the guttural growl of a high-performance engine that didn't belong on streets this cracked.
Heads turned.
Phones lifted.
The crowd began to shift like wind chasing a storm, all drawn to the shimmering silver-and-rose-gold Lamborghini Revuelto that purred down the street like it owned time itself.
And it did.
It slowed in front of the curb like royalty announcing its arrival.
The car door lifted.
Out stepped Olivia Marsden.
And the street transformed.
People clapped. Others screamed her name. Paparazzi swarmed in seconds, lenses flashing like fireworks in broad daylight.
Olivia didn't flinch.
She stepped out like she was walking on air.
Everything about her was choreographed perfection.
Blonde waves cascading over her shoulders like they'd been arranged by a wind god. A two-piece white tweed Chanel set hugging her curves with obscene elegance. Five-inch Louboutins—golden, of course—and diamond drop earrings so big they caught sunlight like chandeliers.
She wasn't alone.
Behind her trailed a small entourage—her assistant, her stylist, a personal bodyguard, and her manager who talked rapidly into an earpiece while holding a designer tablet case. Even the dog she carried—a cream-colored Pomeranian with a diamond collar—seemed to walk with practiced poise.
The crowd adored her.
They screamed her name.
"Olivia! Look this way!"
"You're glowing, Queen!"
"#OutfitGoals!"
And then... her gaze landed on Nephis.
It was instant.
And calculated.
She didn't say anything right away. Just stared.
Then smiled.
The kind of smile that only looked sweet if you didn't know her. The kind of smile that said I remember who you used to be. And I'm going to make sure everyone else remembers too.
She sauntered over, slowly, like a cat stalking prey it wasn't even hungry for.
Nephis tried to turn, to walk, but Olivia's voice—syrupy sweet and amplified by her entourage's recording phones—stopped her.
"Nephis...?"
Nephis turned slowly.
"Is that you?"
She didn't respond.
"You look so... hardworking." Olivia giggled.
A few in the crowd laughed on cue.
"I mean, wow," she continued, walking a slow circle around Nephis. "You've got that suffering chic thing going on. Very... post-apocalyptic vogue."
Another laugh.
Nephis stood still.
"Are you handing out flyers now?" Olivia asked. "So humble. So inspiring. I should do a giveaway in your honor."
She reached into her Yves Saint Laurent purse and pulled out a small, sleek card.
"Here," she said, holding it out. "My business card. You know... for when you're hungry. Or want to tag me in something tragic."
Nephis didn't reach for it.
So Olivia stepped forward—and tucked it into the neckline of Nephis's shirt, just above her heart.
The cameras loved it.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
And in the middle of it all, Olivia whispered low enough only Nephis could hear:
"You'll never be one of us. But thanks for trying."
Then she turned.
She blew kisses to the cameras, climbed back into her car, and drove off with the city still worshipping her.
Nephis didn't cry.
Not yet.
She walked, slowly, numbly, to the nearest alley and sat on the edge of a loading dock.
Then she looked down at the card still tucked between her chest and shirt.
It read:
Olivia Marsden
@LIVlikeQueen – Brand Ambassador. Model. CEO.
And beneath that, in gold lettering:
"Some of us were born to be seen. Others to disappear."
Only then did Nephis realize—she was shaking.
And only then did the tears come.
Not all at once. Not sobs.
Just... a slow unraveling.
Like something had finally split open.
She pressed her face to her knees and let the morning eat her whole.
Online, the video went viral within an hour.
It was captioned: "Iconic! Olivia Marsden Gives Back in the Streets—Classy Queen "
But one man didn't watch it for the influencer.
He watched it for the girl in the background.
Her.
Draven Aldric.
And by the second time he played the clip, he wasn't watching it anymore.
He was memorizing it.