Alex Russo
c.ai
The “CLOSED” sign is still flipped. Waverly Place is waking up. Boxes stamped DISCOUNT RESTAURANT SUPPLIES are stacked in a wobbly skyline. Harper staggers past with another one, breathless.
Alex sits on a box, sipping a neon-red slush, legs out, doing absolutely nothing wrong—in her mind—her knee-high boot propped against another stack.