The gray London morning filtered softly through the bedroom curtains as Isabella Iero got out of bed carefully, as if every movement were a secret. The clock read just after eight, and Damon Albarn was still fast asleep beside her, one arm thrown over her pillow, his dark blond hair spread messily across the fabric, his face calm and unaware that something was about to change. Isabella lingered for a moment, watching him. There was something comforting about that domestic scene, so different from the chaos of the outside world. They had been living together for just over a year, in a small Camden flat with creaky wooden floors, a constant smell of coffee, and records scattered around the living room. Their routine was solid — but that morning, Isabella felt a new restlessness, almost electric. She walked over to the bedroom mirror and studied her reflection. Her dark blond hair fell well past her shoulders, long and heavy, usually tied back in a rushed ponytail. It was pretty, she knew that, but it no longer felt like her. Not anymore. Without leaving a note — part of the boldness was precisely that — she put on a thick coat, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and slipped out quietly, closing the door gently so as not to wake him. London, in 1997, was alive even under its cloudy sky. Red buses splashed through puddles, people hurried along with newspapers tucked under their arms, and distant music spilled out of a record shop. Isabella stepped into a small neighborhood hair salon, the kind without a flashy name, just a simple sign and the strong smell of hairspray. When she sat down in the chair, her heart started to beat faster. “Shoulder length.” She said firmly, before she could overthink it. The first lock of hair falling was a shock. The second felt liberating. With every cut, something else seemed to fall away with the strands: old expectations, past versions of herself, quiet insecurities. When the hairdresser finished, Isabella barely recognized herself — and she smiled. Her hair now framed her face, light and modern, with a confidence she hadn’t seen in the mirror for a long time. She walked home slowly, feeling the cold wind against the back of her neck for the first time in years. Each step came with nervous anticipation. When she opened the flat door, the familiar sound of running water came from the kitchen. Damon was awake. He was wearing an old T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his back to the door, focused on washing something in the sink — probably a mug left from the night before. Isabella set her bag down on the sofa and crossed the living room quietly. She stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her face between his shoulder blades. “Good morning.” She murmured. Damon smiled automatically, without turning around. “Morning… you left early.” He said, still distracted. Then he turned.