I stood in my bedroom the night before we shipped out to the island, staring at a half-packed duffel bag like it might offer me the meaning of life.
It didn't. Just black clothes, toiletries, and the vague existential dread of communal living that crawled up my spine like a centipede made of social anxiety.
"Satori."
Natalia's voice drifted from my bed, where she'd made herself comfortable in my hoodie and a pair of shorts so microscopic they should've come with a warning label and a cardiologist on standby. Her luxurious purple hair spilled across my pillow like royal silk, and she held up one of my worn black t-shirts between two perfectly manicured fingers, examining it with the clinical disapproval of a prosecutor presenting damning evidence.
"Absolutely not. You're the Number One Prospect now, not some back-alley thug scraping by on scraps and street fights. You have an image to maintain."
