The days that followed were quieter than before.
Vera barely left the apartment, except for the occasional supply run when night had settled deep enough to swallow her presence. She told Ava that laying low was necessary—that one of her old clients was "sniffing around" again, and the institution preferred her to stay out of sight until things cooled down.
It was the perfect excuse for her sudden abundance of time.
Time that she used to shape Ava into something sharper.
Ever since the identity-crafting lessons, Vera's mind had been restless. Ava had handled the fake documents like she'd done it for years—no trembling hands, no hesitation. When Vera showed her how to lace a background story into a file, Ava didn't just copy it. She refined it. She added believable touches—a hometown that matched her accent, school names that sounded just right, even a trail of volunteer work that could melt suspicion before it formed.
Now, Vera knew the next step couldn't wait.
> "A forged paper doesn't make you real," she told her one morning, pacing the cramped living room. "People trust what they see. Not what they're told."
Ava stood by the window, the sunlight slanting across her face. "So you mean… how I look?"
Vera gave a small, humorless laugh. "Not just look. Move, talk, breathe. You can't sell trust if you sound desperate. You can't fake class if you don't wear it in your eyes."
The lesson was called status signaling—but Vera preferred to call it "the act."
---
The apartment became their theater.
Vera dragged the coffee table aside and turned their threadbare rug into a runway. She made Ava walk—back straight, shoulders loose, eyes forward. "You're not asking people to notice you," she said, correcting her posture. "You're letting them. Subtle difference, but it changes everything."
Ava obeyed, again and again, until her movements looked effortless. Then came speech drills. Vera taught her to lower her tone just slightly, to pronounce words as though they cost money. She made her hold eye contact while speaking. To never fidget, to fill silence with composure, not panic.
It wasn't long before Ava stopped looking like a teenager pretending to be someone older.
She was someone older.
---
When the lessons shifted to wardrobe, they scavenged from what they had—an oversized thrift-store blazer, faded jeans, a pair of Vera's old heels. Nothing matched, but Vera had her repeat, "It's not about what you wear. It's about how they see you in it."
Ava stood before the mirror, fixing her collar, straightening her posture.
Her reflection looked nothing like the girl who once begged for a chance to tag along. The thrift-store fabric couldn't hide the quiet confidence in her stance.
Vera watched from the couch, arms folded.
A small flicker of something—resentment, admiration, maybe both—crossed her face. "Don't let that look get to your head," she muttered. "You've got the act down. But it's the story behind the act that sells it."
Ava turned slightly, raising an eyebrow. "You mean like the fake paperwork?"
"Exactly. But when you walk into a room, you have to be that person. People won't ask for proof if they already believe."
Her voice softened, but only a little. "That's what makes a real con artist, Ava. Not the lies you tell—but how real you make people want them to be."
---
As the evening dimmed, the air between them changed.
Ava laughed after one of the drills, a rare, genuine sound. "You know, you should've been a teacher," she teased.
Vera smiled faintly but didn't answer. A teacher. The idea almost sounded kind. Almost.
Instead, she poured herself a drink and said, "You're improving fast. Maybe too fast."
Ava took that as praise. She didn't notice the tension in Vera's shoulders, or the way her eyes lingered on her reflection a little too long.
When Vera finally went to bed, the apartment fell quiet again.
But Ava stayed in front of the mirror. She switched between expressions—confidence, grief, charm, sympathy—testing them like masks.
Each one fit a little too well.
She whispered softly to herself, "You can't sell trust if you sound desperate," repeating Vera's line as if it were scripture.
Then she smiled—a quiet, elegant smile that made even her forget which version was the real one.
Behind the bedroom door, Vera lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering the same thing.