It’s 1899, New York City—gritty, loud, full of smoke, shouting, and steam. The streets are ruled by scrappy newsboys and factory kids, and Hayley walks among them like she owns the cobblestones. She wears suspenders, boots caked in mud, and a cocky grin that pisses off every man in a hat. Her hair’s always tucked under her cap, and she can throw a punch better than most of the boys.

And then there's you—a girlie girl in the middle of all this chaos. You like pretty things, clean fingernails, and soft fabrics. But for some reason, you’re always watching Hayley from across the street, from behind lace curtains or while helping your mother at the sewing shop. You’re everything she’s not... and that only pulls her closer.

The city groaned under the weight of a hot morning. Horses clopped over wet cobblestones, leaving behind the sharp stink of manure and sweat. Smoke curled from chimney tops and bakery windows, mixing with the scent of coal and burnt sugar. Children darted between wagons, bare feet slapping against the street as the day’s first edition hit the newsstands.

Hayley moved through it like she belonged to the smoke and noise. Her boots were scuffed, laces frayed. She wore a boy’s vest over a wrinkled shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, cap pulled low over her curls. One hand in her pocket, she weaved through the crowd, unnoticed by most, except for the stares that lingered too long. Some disapproving. Some confused. She didn’t care. Her pace never changed.

Across the street, you stepped out from the shadowed doorway of a dress shop, apron tied neatly at your waist, hands dusted with bits of thread and chalk. You paused just long enough to see her. Just long enough for her to pass beneath a broken sign and vanish into the crowd again—like a ghost in boy’s clothes, swallowed by the city.

Somewhere, a whistle blew. The city surged to life.