The diner smelled of stale coffee and bleach. It was 2:00 AM. Cristina sat in a booth in the back, the sketchbook on the table in front of her.

On the small TV mounted in the corner, a news anchor was talking about New York Fashion Week.

...and rumors are swirling that Floyd Enterprises will finally reveal the face behind the mysterious brand 'Sunny'.

Cristina took a sip of water. Her hand was trembling. She couldn't do this alone. Jackson had the lawyers, the money, the security. She had a book and a frozen bank account.

She reached into her wallet. Hidden behind her ID was a card. It was thick, matte black, with no name. Just a number and an embossed symbol of a scalpel.

The Surgeon.

Five years ago, Jackson needed a kidney. He was dying. They were on a waitlist that was too long. Cristina had gone to the underground. She had met a man who said he could fix anything for a price. She had offered her own kidney, but she wasn't a match. The man-Columbus Mcleod-had found one anyway. He hadn't asked for money. He had asked for something far more personal. A genetic sample. A part of her future. She remembered the cold clinic, the procedure she had hidden from Jackson, the ache in her lower abdomen that lasted for weeks.

She had never called him since. Until now.

She walked to the payphone near the restrooms. She dialed the number.

It rang once.

"Speak," a deep, distorted voice answered.

"This is Origami," Cristina said. It was the code name he gave her because she was folding paper cranes in the waiting room that night.

Silence. Then, the voice cleared, the distortion gone. It was a rich, baritone voice. "It's been a long time, little bird."

"I need help," Cristina said. "I need into Fashion Week. The Floyd Gala. And I need protection."

"Jackson Floyd is a powerful man," the voice said. "Crossing him is expensive."

"I don't have money," Cristina said. "But I have the truth. He's stealing my life."

"I know," the man said. "I've been watching."

Cristina gripped the phone receiver. "Will you help me?"

"The price is high, Origami. If I step in, you belong to the organization. Your talent. Your future. You become mine."

Cristina looked at her reflection in the dirty mirror of the cigarette machine. She looked tired. Broken.

"Deal," she said.

"Go back to your booth," he said. "Wait."

The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, a man in a dark suit walked into the diner. He carried a silver box. He placed it on her table and left without a word.

Cristina opened it. Inside was a black credit card with no limit, a burner phone, and an invitation to the Gala. The name on the invite was Sunny.

Beneath the invite lay a sleek digital tablet. Cristina turned it on. It displayed a detailed dossier of the Gala's guest list. One name was highlighted in red: Marcus Thorne, Editor-in-Chief of TechDaily. A note attached read: He is incorruptible. He will verify the metadata. Use him.

A text message appeared on the phone.

8:00 PM. Don't be late. A car will collect you.

Cristina closed the box. She stood up.

She left the diner and hailed a cab. She went to a salon in Chelsea that stayed open late for VIPs. She slapped the black card on the counter.

"Cut it," she told the stylist.

"How short?"

"Short enough that I can't hide behind it anymore."

Two hours later, the long, mousy brown hair was gone. In its place was a sharp, angled bob, dyed a deep, raven black. Her eyes, usually soft, looked striking and fierce against the dark hair.

She went to a boutique she knew held private stock. She bought the dress she had designed three years ago but Jackson forbade her from releasing because it was "too provocative."

It was gold. Liquid gold. Named Nirvana.

By 7:55 PM, she was standing on the curb. A long black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. The driver opened the door.

Cristina slid into the leather seat. She smoothed the sketchbook on her lap.

"To Lincoln Center," she said.

The flashbulbs were blinding. A wall of photographers lined the red carpet leading into Lincoln Center.

A white stretch limousine pulled up. The crowd cheered. Jackson Floyd stepped out, looking dashing in a tuxedo. He turned and offered his hand to Davida.

Davida emerged. She was wearing a pink dress that looked vaguely familiar to the fashion press-a modified version of an old Sunny design. It pulled awkwardly at the waist. She smiled, waving weakly, playing the role of the fragile genius perfectly.

"Is it true?" a reporter shouted. "Are you Sunny?"

Davida giggled and hid her face in Jackson's shoulder. Jackson smiled at the cameras. "We have a big announcement inside."

They began to walk up the carpet.

Then, the atmosphere changed.

A low hum of an engine cut through the noise. A matte black car, sleek and predatory, rolled to a stop right behind the white limo. It didn't have license plates. It had a small flag on the hood with a crest no one recognized-The Surgeon's mark.

Security started to move forward to block it, but the lead guard saw the driver and froze. He signaled his men to stand down.

The back door opened.

First, a red-soled stiletto hit the red carpet. Then, a leg exposed by a high slit.

Cristina stepped out.

The silence was instantaneous.

She wore gold. The fabric clung to her body like a second skin, shimmering under the lights. The back was completely open, draped only by the finest sheer mesh. Her black bob was sharp as a knife. Her lips were painted a deep, blood red.

She didn't look like the shy, dowdy wife Jackson had hidden away. She looked like a queen.

"Who is that?" someone whispered.

"Is that... is that the ex-wife?"

Jackson turned around. His jaw literally dropped. He stared at her, blinking, as if trying to process the image.

Davida's smile vanished. Her nails dug into Jackson's arm.

Cristina began to walk. She didn't look at the cameras. She looked straight ahead, her eyes locked on the entrance.

The photographers woke up. The sound of shutters clicking became a roar, louder than it had been for Davida.

Click. Click. Click.

She walked right up to where Jackson and Davida were standing, blocking the path.

Jackson found his voice. "Tina? What are you doing here?"

He stepped toward her, trying to use his height to intimidate her. "You need to leave. Now. You're embarrassing yourself."

Cristina stopped. She turned her head slowly to look at him. She didn't blink.

"I have an invitation," she said. Her voice was low, but steady.

"You're trespassing," Davida hissed. "Security!"

A large man in a headset stepped forward, reaching for Cristina's arm.

Before he could touch her, two men in dark suits materialized from the crowd. They didn't draw weapons, but they moved with a lethal fluidity. They stepped between Cristina and the guard. The guard looked at their eyes and backed away, terrified.

Jackson saw the men. He recognized the type. Professional. Dangerous.

"Who are you with?" Jackson asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Cristina smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I'm with the future, Jackson. And you're in my way."

She brushed past him. The gold fabric of her dress swished against his tuxedo pants.

She walked alone up the rest of the carpet, the lights reflecting off her like armor.

Jackson watched her go, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach.