It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon.

Your bookstore was nearly empty, the soft hum of jazz on the old radio mixing with the smell of paper and dust. You were reshelving a stack of worn novels when the door slammed open, the little bell above it jingling violently.

A woman rushed inside, hood pulled low, sunglasses covering half her face. She glanced around wildly before darting between shelves. A second later, you heard the distant chaos outside—shouts, camera flashes popping through the glass, voices calling a name you didn’t quite catch.

She crouched behind the poetry section, breathing hard. That’s when her hood slipped just enough for you to recognize her.

Marie Avgeropoulos.

She pressed a finger to her lips when your eyes met, silently begging you not to give her away.

For some reason you didn’t even stop to question, you moved to the door and flipped the sign to Closed. The crowd outside grumbled but eventually moved on, leaving only silence and the sound of Marie’s shaky exhale.

“Thanks,” she said finally, pulling off her glasses. Her eyes were brighter, more human, than any photo could have captured. “I owe you one.”