The morning sun barely slipped between the skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan, casting long, claw-like shadows across the pavement. At exactly 9:05 a.m., Damien Caldwell stepped out of his silent black sedan.
The car made no sound. Neither did his movements.
Italian suit. Perfect tailoring. Platinum cufflinks. His clothes felt less like fashion and more like armor.
Damien didn’t walk—he advanced, the way men do when the world is used to moving out of their way.
His destination was VERTEX, the flagship store of his luxury fashion empire. A cathedral of glass and steel where celebrities ordered custom pieces and employees moved quietly, as if elegance itself demanded silence.
And, as every morning, she was there.
A dark smudge on his immaculate routine: a thin little girl, tangled hair, oversized clothes, dirt-streaked knees. She held a small cardboard box filled with candy.
“Candy, sir… for good luck,” she offered with a shy smile.
Her name was Luna. No one downtown knew her last name. Some nights she slept behind a bakery. Other nights under a bridge. The city was her home—and her enemy.