INAGAVIN
Heels clicking on the Manhattan sidewalk, I stride through the cold December night, wrapped in a coat that screams luxury, the irony of it all but I suppose there are some things I can't give up even though I don't like wealthy people, a full-length white fur that hugs my frame like a second skin. The fur sways lightly with each step, catching the glow of the streetlights as they battle the shadows of the towering skyscrapers. The icy wind bites at my cheeks, but I don't flinch. My ash blonde hair peeks out from beneath a vintage ushanka my boots sleek, black, and impossibly high-make every step a declaration. They're the kind that could crush egos and carve paths through the kind of chaos only Manhattan knows how to create. The streets are alive, buzzing with the energy of tourists, holiday shoppers and late-night dreamers, but I'm in my own world, caught between the suffocating weight of the story I'm chasing and the thrill of knowing I'm on the brink of something monumental.