The blazer itched.
Gold embroidery, high collar, exaggerated cuffs—Camille's handiwork, obviously. Not exactly subtle, but neither was she. I adjusted the fit as we stepped out of the apartment into the crisp morning air. She walked ahead, boots clicking confidently on the pavement, her curls catching the sun like a halo of fire.
"Hey," I called. "I thought everything you needed was in your office. Where are we actually going?"
She didn't even slow. "We have other business today."
I caught up, frowning. "What kind of business?"
She stopped just long enough to glance at me over her sunglasses. "The interview."
Ah.
That interview.
The one about her alleged involvement with the Masked Syndicate. Ever since someone had pointed out that the member's elaborate masks looked a little too familiar—mirroring her earlier work, echoing her signature lines—the conspiracy train had taken off without brakes.
Camille kept walking, and I followed, jaw tight.
