The morning air was deceptively fresh, the kind of weather that teased the city with a hint of autumn while the sun still held onto its summer teeth.
Amara, however, wasn't feeling the breeze. She was currently suffocating.
She stood before the full-length mirror in her cramped apartment, tugging at the ribbed fabric of a charcoal-grey turtleneck. It was pretty impractical for a day that was forecasted to hit twenty-five degrees. But she didn't have a choice. Not unless she wanted to walk into Ispire Inc. looking like she'd spent the night wrestling with a particularly aggressive vacuum cleaner.
"Blossoming," she muttered, tilting her head to the side. "It's not blossoming. It's a crime scene."
