Jackson’s heart hammered against his ribs as he slipped out the back door of the apartment he’d called home for three years. The sirens were still distant, but he knew they wouldn’t stay that way. Whatever mess he’d stepped in-bad enough to make his name poison-had left him exactly one option: disappear before anyone could prove he’d ever been there.

Plane tickets meant ID. His own car meant GPS and license plates that might as well have been neon signs. That left the Greyhound station two miles away, the one place where cash still bought anonymity and no one asked questions if you paid in twenties.

But he couldn’t board as Jackson. Thirty-year-old men with clean-shaven faces and nervous eyes got remembered. He needed to vanish inside someone no one would look at twice.

Inside a duffle bag, the pieces he’d practiced with once, half-drunk and laughing at how convincing the mirror had looked. Tonight there was no laughter.

He stripped down under the single bulb. First came the padded briefs, thick foam that rounded his hips and filled and rounded out the space beneath his belt into a soft, matronly curve. He taped them in place with medical adhesive that wouldn’t shift even if he ran. Next, the bra-38D, heavy-duty underwire. He stuffed the cups with silicone inserts until they hung low but natural, the kind of generous bust that made people glance away politely rather than stare.

Over it all he pulled a loose, scoop-neck print blouse the color of lilac-short sleeves, nothing to hide behind. The neckline showed collarbones and a hint of cleavage; the short sleeves left his arms bare. Nothing screamed disguise louder than trying to cover up. The illusion had to say: this is just how I am.