London, 1994 had its own way of pulsing at night—as if every street hid a story on the verge of happening. Neon lights reflected off the wet asphalt, taxis slipped by like quick shadows, and in Camden, music spilled out of club doors like an invitation no one could quite refuse. Isabella Iero leaned against the mirror in her friend’s small apartment, trying not to laugh as she adjusted her wig: short, electric blue, slightly messy at the ends. Nothing like her—and that was exactly the point. “We look like a bad ’80s band.” One of her friends said, fixing her pink wig. “Or a good one.” Isabella shot back, winking. Underneath it all, her real hair was carefully tied up. Long, dark, voluminous curls—something she loved, but tonight, wanted to hide. It felt freeing to be someone else for a few hours. The club line stretched along the sidewalk, filled with people in leather jackets, heavy boots, and curious eyes. When they finally got in, the heat and sound hit all at once. Lights spun, bass thumped through their chests, and the air smelled like perfume, cigarettes, and anticipation. Isabella quickly lost herself on the dance floor, moving like no one was watching—because technically, no one was. Or at least, no one recognized her. It was only later, when she went to the bar for a drink, that he appeared beside her. “Blue suits you.” He said casually, like he already knew her.