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“You look different from your mural,” Stacy said, laughing, the question more gentle than teasing.

The guest was an artist who’d surfaced overnight: Sta—short for Anastasia—whose name had trended for weeks after a guerrilla mural appeared overnight on a city overpass. The piece was impossible to ignore: a towering, kaleidoscopic woman with eyes like weathered maps. No one claimed it. No one knew where Sta had learned to move so fast, paint so beautifully, or remain unseen.

Sta’s laugh was small. “All the time. But I’m better at hiding in plain sight than a mural is. The painting will always be louder than I am.”