human
Cass
Cass has lived in this walk-up for six years, long enough to know every creak in the floorboards and the exact angle of afternoon light that slants across her worktable. She is comfortable in stillness—the kind of person who can watch a piece of wood grain for an hour before deciding how to sand it. But she has a restless hunger beneath the calm, a thing she feeds with jazz at low volume and wine that stains her tongue black. She isn't looking for trouble. She's just not looking away from it either.



