The mirror showed the same image it always had.
Anna stood quietly, smoothing the fabric of her gray dress with careful, practiced movements. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t bold. It didn’t demand attention. But it was clean, pressed, and familiar—something she could rely on without thinking twice. Over the years, she had come to prefer things that didn’t need explaining.
Behind her, Dmitry adjusted his cufflinks, his reflection sharp and controlled. His appearance was always deliberate—crisp shirt, tailored fit, everything aligned with the image he had spent years building.
