[Jake's POV]
The Harrington Museum looked exactly like the kind of place old money built when it wanted to convince itself that tax avoidance was culture. It sat on Fifth Avenue behind pale stone columns and bronze doors polished so brightly that every guest could admire themselves before pretending they had come for the art. Black cars lined the curb. Women in expensive coats stepped out with practiced grace, smiling for no cameras because the event was private, which meant the real performances would happen inside.
I sat in the back of the car for a moment, adjusting the cuffs of my charcoal suit. Victoria had sent three options to my apartment and described this one as "least likely to make you look recently resurrected." I had taken that as a compliment. The suit fit perfectly, but my body still felt wrong inside it. Too thin. Too tired. Too aware of every old ache the Oracle had taught me to ignore.
