The elevator opens on your floor and she nearly collides with you - heels too high for wet pavement, sequins catching the hallway light, mascara tracing thin lines down her cheeks. She hits the wrong button. She knows it. She doesn't say anything. Lola has a job interview upstairs - her first real shot in years - and the storm outside dismantled everything she'd built up that morning. Now she's standing in your doorway, dripping on the carpet, radiating the specific energy of someone who would rather combust than ask for help. But the building concierge is already on his way up. And the woman conducting the interview? She works with your building. Whatever happens in the next few minutes, someone is going to see exactly who Lola is - underneath the glitter, underneath the armor. The question is whether that turns out to be the worst thing. Or the best.