The Motel 6 was a sad, beige building with peeling paint that curled like dead skin. The Uber driver didn't even pull into the lot; he dropped Avery on the street corner and sped away.

Zoe Xander was waiting by the vending machine. She was smoking a cigarette, her movements jerky and nervous. She looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, but when she saw Avery, her face softened.

"You look like hell, princess," Zoe said, tossing the cigarette onto the asphalt and crushing it with her boot.

"Nice to see you too, Zoe," Avery said. She felt a lump form in her throat. In the original story, Zoe was the only one who visited Avery's grave.

They went into the room. It smelled of stale smoke and lemon cleaner. It was cramped, with two double beds that sagged in the middle.

"I used my savings to scrub some of the blogs," Zoe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But the big sites... I can't touch them."

"Thank you," Avery said. She meant it. "But we have work to do. I need to go to the studio lot. I left my portfolio in the agency locker."

Zoe's eyes went wide. "Are you insane? It's suicide. Everyone there hates you right now. Ernest probably has a sniper on the roof."

"I need it for the plan," Avery said. She started unpacking her suitcase. "And I don't care who hates me."

Thirty minutes later, they were walking fast across the Paramount Studio lot. Avery had changed into black jeans and a black t-shirt. She looked less like a socialite and more like a stagehand.

They tried to stick to the shadows of the soundstages, but luck wasn't on their side.

"Well, well. Look who it is."

The voice was nasally and arrogant. Hamlin Ward. The son of a major producer. A man who had peaked in high school and was trying to ride that wave into his thirties.

He stepped out from behind a trailer, flanked by two guys in expensive suits who laughed at everything he said.

"The trash took itself out, but it came back," Hamlin sneered. He blocked their path.

Zoe stepped forward. "Leave us alone, Hamlin. We're just getting her stuff."

Hamlin laughed. He reached out and shoved Zoe. It wasn't a hard shove, but it was dismissive. Zoe stumbled back, hitting the wall of the trailer.

Something snapped in Avery's head. Her vision went red at the edges.

"Don't," Avery said. Her voice was low.

Hamlin turned his attention to her. He stepped into her personal space. He smelled of breath mints and entitlement.

"Or what?" Hamlin smirked. He reached out to grab a lock of her hair, a move he used to do to intimidate girls in prep school. "You going to cry to your daddy? Oh wait, he's dead."

Avery didn't flinch. She watched his hand move in slow motion. A memory, not her own but sharper than any of them, flashed behind her eyes: a humid training hall, the sting of sweat, and an instructor's voice yelling about vulnerable points. It was for a role in her past life, a method actress who had spent six months learning Krav Maga. The muscle memory was still there, dormant and waiting.

She caught his wrist mid-air.

Hamlin tried to pull back, but her grip was iron. She stepped in, pivoting her hips. She drove her elbow into his solar plexus. It wasn't a flailing strike. It was precise. Controlled.

Oof.

The sound of the air leaving his lungs was audible.

Hamlin's eyes bugged out. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping like a fish on dry land, curled into a fetal position.

The two sycophants froze. They looked from Hamlin to Avery, terrified.

Avery leaned down. She brought her face close to Hamlin's ear.

"Touch her again," she whispered, "and I break the wrist next time."

She straightened up. She adjusted her jacket.

"Let's go, Zoe."

Zoe was staring at her with her mouth open. She looked like she had seen a ghost. Or a superhero.

"Since when do you know how to do that?" Zoe hissed as they power-walked toward the lockers.

"I've been taking classes," Avery lied. "Kickboxing. For cardio."

They grabbed the portfolio and exited through the side gate before security could arrive.

High up on the corner of Soundstage 4, a security camera blinked red. It had captured the entire sequence. The grab. The strike. The collapse.

Hamlin Ward lay on the ground, clutching his stomach, tears of humiliation stinging his eyes. He wheezed, vowing revenge.

Back in the safety of the motel room, Zoe was pacing. She had worn a track in the cheap carpet.

"Hamlin will sue us," Zoe said, her voice rising in pitch. "His dad owns half the town. We're dead. We're actually dead."

Avery sat on the bed, spreading papers from her portfolio on the orange bedspread. She was calm. Unnaturally calm.

"He won't sue," Avery said, not looking up. "He's too embarrassed. He got dropped by a girl in five seconds. He won't want that story getting out."

She picked up a casting sheet. It was crumpled and stained with coffee. She smoothed it out. Arnoldo Young.

Zoe stopped pacing. She looked at the paper. "The indie director? He's a recluse. He's ghosted all the major studios, dropped out of the industry circuit entirely. Nobody can find him."

"I know where he is," Avery said.

"How?"

"He hangs out at the 'Blue Velvet' jazz club on Tuesdays," Avery said. She tapped the paper. "He's looking for a pianist for his noir film. He wants authenticity."

Zoe looked skeptical. "You don't play piano, Avery. You play the radio. And you definitely don't play jazz."

Avery smiled. It was a small, mysterious smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I have hidden depths, Zoe."

She stood up and went to her suitcase. She pulled out a black dress. It was simple, backless, and elegant. It was the only thing she had saved that looked like armor.

"This isn't an audition," Avery said, holding the dress up. "It's an ambush."

Zoe sat down heavily on the other bed. She looked at Avery-really looked at her-for the first time since the morning. "You've changed. You're... scary."

"Survival is scary," Avery said softly.

They spent the afternoon prepping. Avery did her makeup in the dim bathroom light. Sharp winged eyeliner. Dark red lips. She hummed a melody as she worked-a complex, dissonant jazz scale that twisted and turned.

Zoe listened from the bedroom, a frown creasing her forehead. That wasn't a song from the radio.

"Where did you learn that?" Zoe asked through the open door.

"YouTube," Avery lied again. She checked her reflection. The woman staring back was ready for war.

Night fell over Los Angeles. They called a generic taxi to avoid tracking.

The Blue Velvet was in an alleyway downtown. It was the kind of place you only found if you knew where to look. There was no sign, just a heavy metal door and a bouncer who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.

The bouncer crossed his massive arms as they approached. "List only."

Zoe opened her mouth to plead, but Avery stepped in front of her.

She looked at the bouncer. She looked at the faded tattoo on his forearm.

"Semper Fi, Sergeant," Avery said. Her voice was respectful. "First Division, right? The Old Breed."

The bouncer blinked. His scowl faltered. He looked at this girl in the expensive dress who knew his unit patch.

"My uncle served in Fallujah with the First," Avery lied smoothly, adding a detail she remembered from the novel's character bio. "He always said the jazz in Baghdad was terrible."

The bouncer cracked a grin. It transformed his face. "He wasn't wrong."

He unhooked the velvet rope. "Enjoy the music, ladies."

Zoe grabbed Avery's arm as they walked past him. Her grip was tight. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess," Avery whispered.

They stepped inside. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of expensive whiskey. A saxophone was wailing in the corner.

The hunt was on.

It was late. The city lights of Century City twinkled below the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cullen Hunter's office like fallen stars. The office was cold, sterile, and silent, save for the hum of the hard drive on his desk.

The door opened. Liam Jenkins walked in. He didn't knock. He was the only person on the payroll allowed to do that.

"We have a problem," Liam said. He placed a tablet on the glass desk. "Hamlin Ward is threatening to sue Avery for assault."

Cullen rolled his eyes. He leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his temples. "Since when does Avery assault people? Did she throw a martini at him?"

"She threw an elbow," Liam corrected. "To the solar plexus."

Cullen stopped rubbing his temples. He looked at Liam. "Excuse me?"

"Watch."

Liam pressed play on the tablet.

The security footage was grainy, black and white. Cullen watched Avery and Zoe walking. He watched Hamlin approach. He watched the shove.

And then he watched Avery.

He rewound it. He watched it again. The catch of the wrist. The pivot. The strike. The lack of hesitation. Her face was a blur, but her body language was clear. It was cold. It was efficient.

This was not the woman who had cried in his bed yesterday morning. This was not the chaotic, desperate girl the tabloids loved to hate.

"She moves like she's trained," Cullen muttered. A spark of intrigue lit up in his chest, hot and sudden.

"Hamlin says his wrist is sprained. He wants her arrested," Liam said.

Cullen felt a surge of irritation. Not at Avery. But at the idea of Hamlin Ward-a parasite with a trust fund-touching something that Cullen had... interacted with.

"Hamlin is a waste of space," Cullen decided. He pushed the tablet away. "Make it go away."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "You want to help her? After the stunt she pulled this morning with the money?"

Cullen's jaw tightened. He could still see the crumpled bills on his nightstand. "That pathetic display was an insult. I won't allow a debt, no matter how small or symbolic, to stand between us. Erase it. It's about closing the books on my terms, not hers."

Liam suppressed a smirk. He knew better than to argue with Cullen when he was lying to himself. "Understood. I'll find a scapegoat. Maybe a 'slip and fall' witness. Or I'll just buy Hamlin a new car."

"And Liam," Cullen added. He stared at the freeze-frame on the tablet. Avery standing over Hamlin, looking like a queen of the underworld. "Find out where she is. She's not at her apartment."

"Already on it," Liam said, turning to leave.

Cullen was left alone with the silence. He touched the screen, tracing the outline of Avery's figure.

His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Cheslie.

I'm so worried about Avery. Have you seen her? She's not answering me.

For the first time in years, seeing Cheslie's name didn't bring a sense of comfort. It brought a wave of annoyance.

He ignored the text. He closed the tablet.

He stood up, restless. The office felt too small. The air was too recycled. He needed a drink. A real drink.

He grabbed his suit jacket.

"Driver," he spoke into his intercom. "Take me to the Blue Velvet."

Fate, it seemed, was moving the pieces together on the board.