The Unmaking of Alexandra

The rain had been falling all day; brutal, relentless, like it wanted to punish the city into submission. It slashed against the windows of Alex’s apartment, clawing at the glass as if it could get inside to share the misery.

The room was dark except for the dim, flickering glow of the laptop screen perched on a battered coffee table. There was nothing particularly charming about the apartment - walls the color of damp plaster, a scarred futon that smelled faintly of old cigarettes and spilled beer, and a desk cluttered with cables, takeout cartons, and a half-drained coffee mug growing its little patch of mold. But it was home if you squinted hard enough and didn’t expect much.

Alex sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the machine, tapping commands into the terminal with the focus of someone trying to hold her world together, one keystroke at a time.