"You're not important enough to mention," Ignacio says, glass balanced in his palm. "Ignacio," Veronika laughs, small and bright, like she thinks his sentence is a joke. "That was rude." "You remember Maya?" a woman at the circle asks, flicking her wrist toward me as if pointing is an insult. "Who?" Ignacio answers, smiling slow. He tilts his head and studies me like a museum piece. "I'm Maya Fernandes," I say. I keep my hands folded so they don't tremble. "That's what I thought," he says. "Not exactly headline material anymore." A bottle spins for the alumni game on the floor between champagne flutes. The room is warm, voices overlapping, the kind of alumni energy that wants to be important even if nothing will be decided tonight. "Truth," calls the kid who still acts like he's twenty. "Or double dare." Veronika's shoe taps the edge of the throw rug. The bottle slows, noses toward her. Everyone leans in because that's the rule of these nights. "Veronika," someone goes. "Truth—what's the luckiest thing you've had since you moved to Harbor City?" She glances at Ignacio. He grins, drinks. This time his grin doesn't reach his eyes. "You," he says. "I suppose. People hand opportunities to you, don’t they?" Laughter picks up. A few faces look at me then away. "Ignore him," a classmate says softly. "He likes making small people smaller." Ignacio lifts his glass. "I just mean Maya