Chapter 2

The alley reeked of stale beer and garbage. It was a world away from the climate-controlled, hushed reverence of the art studios I used to call home. But here, on a grimy brick wall, I felt a flicker of life return. This was my rebirth. Not in a hospital or a church, but here, with a can of spray paint in my hand.

For three months, I had been invisible. I moved to a cheap apartment on the other side of the city, cut off all contact with my old life, and let Ava Vance, the disgraced restorer, fade into a bitter memory. Now, I was just a ghost, a street artist who came out at night.

My work wasn't about fame or money. It was about survival. I painted intricate, detailed portraits of forgotten things: a discarded doll, a wilted flower, a cracked teacup. I poured all my training, all my precision, into these ephemeral works. It was the only way I could feel sane.

One morning, while buying coffee at a cheap diner, I saw her face on the small TV mounted in the corner. It was Chloe, of course. She was being interviewed on a morning talk show, looking polished and confident.

"They're calling you a miracle worker, Chloe," the host gushed. "You solved the 'Phantom of the Opera' case, a forged musical score that fooled Sotheby's for fifty years. How do you do it? What's your secret?"

Chloe gave her practiced, humble smile.

"It's not a miracle," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I just listen. The art tells you its story, if you're open to its energy. It's an intuition, a gift I suppose. I can feel the artist's soul in the work."

The lie was so blatant, so absurd, it made me sick. I remembered the 'Phantom' score. I had spent a week analyzing it with Chloe, explaining my theory that the forger had used a specific iron gall ink that aged unnaturally under spectroscopic analysis. I had even written down the chemical formula in my private notes. She had simply stolen my conclusion and presented it as a mystical revelation.

The memory of the betrayal washed over me again, cold and sharp. The public humiliation, Mark's cold rejection, the stinging heat of the coffee on my skin. It all came back. But this time, it wasn't just pain. It was fuel. I was no longer the broken woman who ran away. I was someone else now, someone harder.

My new life was about to be interrupted. That evening, as I was sketching out a new piece on a wall near the docks, a sleek black car pulled up. Mark got out. He looked tired and stressed.

"Ava," he said, his voice hesitant. "I've been looking for you."

I didn't stop sketching. "The disgraced vandal? Why would you be looking for her?"

"We need your help," he said, ignoring my sarcasm. "It's a big case. A potential forgery of a da Vinci."

Suddenly, Chloe was there, stepping out of the car. She was dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, looking completely out of place in the gritty environment. She tried to take control immediately.

"Ava, Mark is right. The National Gallery has asked our studio to authenticate a newly discovered painting, 'La Bella Principessa.' But something's wrong with it. My intuition is... blocked." She said it as if it were a great tragedy.

She then had the audacity to critique my work, a half-finished mural of a broken pocket watch.

"Street art," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "It's so... temporary. A bit of a step down from restoring Renaissance masterpieces, don't you think? It's a shame to see real talent wasted on dirty walls that will just be painted over."

Her words were meant to sting, to remind me of what I had lost. But they had the opposite effect. They ignited a cold fire in my gut. I finally turned to look at them, my face unreadable.

As Chloe talked, I noticed something. She gestured towards a nearby brick wall, and for a split second, her expensive silk blouse pulled tight against her arm. I saw a faint, dark bruise on her upper arm, shaped almost like a handprint. It was gone in an instant as she adjusted her jacket, but I saw it. A flicker of an image, a detail that didn't fit. A crack in her perfect facade.

It was just like analyzing a painting. You look for the inconsistencies, the historical inaccuracies, the tiny mistakes a forger makes. Chloe was a forgery. And I had just found the first brushstroke that was out of place.

I looked from the bruise that was no longer visible to her smug, confident face. I looked at Mark, who stood by looking desperate and lost. And I knew, right then, that the game had changed. This wasn't my past life coming back to haunt me. It was my future, offering me a chance for justice.

"I'm not Ava Vance anymore," I said, my voice steady. "And I don't work for you." I turned back to my wall, picking up a can of black spray paint. The hiss of the can was the only sound in the alley. I was going to change my fate. This time, I would be the one in control.