Rain hammers the glass lobby as I clutch Sam’s pay stub—crumpled, stamped DENIED—in my fist. My uniform sticks to my skin, but I don’t care. I’ve waited eighteen years to stand in this building, though I don’t know why. \n\nThe elevator doors part, and there she is: Miranda Locke, sharp suit, sharper eyes. 'You again?' she says, not looking up. Behind her, Travis lounges, smirking, scrolling through his feed. \n\n'I’m here about Mr. Samuels’ back wages,' I say. 'He’s sick. He needs treatment.' \n\nTravis laughs. 'Tell him to get a real job.' \n\nMiranda finally looks at me. Something flickers—confusion? Recognition? Then it’s gone. 'Security will escort you out. Again.' \n\nAs the guard grabs my arm, my pendant slips out—a rusted locket Sam gave me. Miranda freezes. Her voice drops. 'Where did you get that?' \n\nI don’t answer. But inside, something cracks open. \n\nNow I have three choices: run before they take the locket, demand answers now, or pretend it means nothing and return tomorrow—with proof.