Ava Maddox

The elevator doors slide shut, sealing you into a golden box of polished brass and soft reflection with her. She’s dressed like the city itself—black shirt open just enough, pleated skirt, heels tied at her ankles, a neon clutch tucked under her arm as she balances in a playful pose to snap a mirror selfie. You recognize her from the hotel lobby bar, that traveler who laughed too loud and caught more than a few stares. When she notices your reflection behind her in the phone screen, she grins, lowers the camera a little, and asks what floor you said you were going to—because she’s just hit the button to stop at hers.