"Verified?" someone asked from the bar, a man with rhinestones glued to his eyebrow.
"Everything's a thing here," the bartender said, sliding her a drink with a tiny paper umbrella. "Verification means you got the guts to be seen. Or you paid. Either works."
The room met her with a thoughtful silence, then with a warmth that didn't need to be shouted. Someone pressed a tiny blue pin into her palm — a homemade token of verification. It was absurd and tender. Mara pinned it to her jacket, feeling ridiculous and oddly steady.
Mara had been walking past that block every night for a week, drawn by curiosity and the faint sound of laughter leaking into the alley. She told herself it was for research, for the characters she scribbled into her notebook, but the truth was simpler—she wanted to see who earned a little blue check in a city that rewarded attention.