"Don't touch me." Kassidy shoved Corbin out of her doorway and shut the world he thought he owned. He stumbled on the stoop and caught himself on the rusted railing, palms white. Evie stepped forward, varnished nails and practiced concern. "Kass, listen—" "Don't." Kassidy's voice was a blade. It cut the two things she hated most: pleading and revision. Harbor City wind pushed trash down the alley. The neon of Corbin's old flier—his smiling sales face—flickered like a bad tooth. People leaned from their thresholds, because drama fed this neighborhood and everyone needed a show. Corbin's grin tried to rebuild itself. "You don't have to be like this. We can fix it. You always know someone—" "Who?" Kassidy laughed, short and without humor. "You? You and Evie? The very people who sold my designs to that pop-up buyer and let him burn the studio? The people who left my name on every bad debt sheet in Corbin's ledger?" She stepped out far enough that the gutter smelled of diesel and old incense. "Which one of you is the cash cow today?" Evie's fingers tightened on a silk scarf that looked expensive enough to be a souvenir. Her face was a mask of worry practiced in the mirror. "We're not monsters, K. We can help. Corbin can—" "Save it." Kassidy did not raise her voice. That would have been showy. She moved like a blade through cotton: precise, cold