"Pull the camera closer! My boss wants to see her face!" A hand shoved at my chin. The perfume stung. I snapped my fingers against muscle and bone. "Hey!" the lecherous man laughed. "She looks pale. Get a soft light." "Keep it rolling," a cameraman said. "You know the clip will sell." I whispered, "No." Then I moved. My fingers curled around his wrist like a vice. He tried to twist away. He couldn't. "What's this—" He yelped when his wrist popped. A clean snap. The room went loud. "Jesus!" the other man screamed. "You broke him!" "Don't die," I said. "You're useful." I snatched the phone from his belt as he collapsed, sweat and fear and expensive cologne mixing into a mess. "Who the hell—" the cameraman stumbled backward, idiot flash in his eyes. "Where's the feed?" the lecherous man gasped, clutching bone. "I have it," I said. I thumbed the screen. The clip played: two men smoothing my hair, the one with the voice spitting lines about exposure. My own face on the screen looked small and fragile. The camera had been live. "Give. It. Back," one of them ordered. His voice had turned brittle. I turned on the phone speaker. The voice from the clip filled the suite. "Pull the camera closer! My boss wants to see her face!" Silence crashed through their bravado. "Who are you?" the cameraman asked. He looked from me to the dead-wrist man to the phone