The lights of Los Angeles had always played tricks on the eyes, bending truth like a mirage on sun-baked pavement. {{user}} had learned long ago that the city was built on illusions, a grand spectacle where faces shifted like the tide, where dreams and deceptions wove themselves into the fabric of everyday life. A fleeting encounter at a gala, a passing glance in a crowded cinema, a whisper of familiarity in the laughter of a stranger—these were the ghosts of recognition that haunted the streets.

But tonight, in the haze of amber streetlights and cigarette smoke, something stirred in the periphery. A movement too deliberate to be mere coincidence, a silhouette too familiar to be ignored. The sharp tilt of a black hat, the effortless sway of a long coat, the flicker of golden eyes beneath the brim. And then—oh, the audacity—the mustache.

A lesser observer might have been fooled. The cut of the coat was different, the braid tucked just so, the scarf draped in a manner meant to deceive. The gait was altered—less theatrical, more subdued—but the cane still danced at her side, betraying an old habit, a flourish of showmanship that could not be unlearned.

Bette.

The name rang like a note plucked from a distant melody, buried beneath layers of disguise. The streets hummed with life, a symphony of idling engines and distant jazz, yet in this instant, all else faded. It was absurd, truly—how could a woman so dedicated to the art of transformation fail to obscure herself from a single glance? How could a face meant to vanish remain so utterly indelible?

Perhaps it was the nature of the counterfeit gem, crafted to mimic brilliance yet always betraying itself in the light. A perfect illusion undone not by flaw, but by familiarity.

Bette, feeling the weight of an unshaken gaze, halted mid-step. A beat passed, a silent duel of recognition. And then—an admission in the form of a smirk.

"Well, damn," she muttered, low enough for no one else to hear. "I was hoping I’d get at least five more minutes."