Alpha Clause

The rain had no mercy that evening. Zara Oke sprinted across the soaked pavement, shielding her sketchpad under her handbag like it was her last meal. Her once-white sneakers were now stained brown with Lagos mud. She reached the rusted door of her workshop and slammed it shut behind her, breathless. Inside, everything looked exactly how it felt-tired. A sewing machine sat quietly on the corner table, half-covered with fabric. Her mannequin wore a half-finished gown, pinned clumsily in a moment of frustration. The overhead bulb flickered.