How Could I Possibly Be Inconspicuous Novels & Stories

Causing problems with me would complicate his life. Which was more important? Wanting to know what it was hiding or not causing him problems? Maybe if I went incognito, well-covered, so the security cameras wouldn't see me, perhaps I could... A quite tall building was in front of me, and I felt insignificant standing in the small plaza on the ground floor. Many people hurried and bustled around me, all in their typical executive suits. Some were talking on the phone, others held briefcases in their hands; it was clear they were all in a rush.

Claud said, looking remorseful “I understand. I’ll try.” I was about to lead him out of the dark alley when I saw five figures in the darkness at the place we should’ve used to leave this alley. Damn, they must have seen me run in. I completely forgot how unsafe this part of England was. How do I get out of this without tipping them off that Claud isn’t a normal human being? I can’t expect Claud to approach them or try to talk to them because he still doesn’t know how human customs work. He might try sniffing their butts, you know, like dogs do to each other. That would be really weird. So I guess I’m doing this. I’m talking to five men in a dark alley. Sigh. Here goes nothing. “Hi, excuse m

“I don't know really.” “I’ll leave you to think about it while I go shower.” How do I approach her, if I'm at all going to make an appearance, I can't do it in the eye of the public and if I'm going to see her behind closed doors, how do I bypass security and all? I breathe in feeling like a prey in between two kills. I think showing up at her mother’s restaurant would be the best option. I just have to cross my hands and hope she shows up. I would need to disguise myself to go unnoticed.

Step Two was where things would get a little more difficult: Stay Inconspicuous. I was already close to the edge of the territory since Alpha Jackson had wanted me as far from his pack as he could risk. However, there were still a few miles I would have to track to break past the territory line, but if I stuck close to the trees and the wind was in my favour, I could make it out of there. Lifting my hood to hide my hair and face, I started with a casual walk towards the forest, not wanting to draw attention to myself. If I was caught, I could pretend I was going on a late-night walk to clear my head.

But there was no stipend for me so I still had to work to eat. I used to think being invisible was the safest thing in the world. At Lockwood, blending in kept you out of trouble. At school, it made the whispers fade. At work, it meant fewer questions. I’d become so used to folding myself into corners that when I finally stepped into a world that looked at me, I didn’t know how to look back.

I woke up with a plan. It was not a complicated plan. It did not require equipment or significant preparation. It required only that I be a normal, functioning adult woman who was capable of making her interest in another person reasonably clear without embarrassing herself. I had done this before. I was sure I had done this before. At some point in my life, before France and before snowstorms and before men with composed faces and warm hands, I had successfully communicated romantic interest to another human being, and it had gone fine.

"He wants you to dress like a player, not a piece." I unzipped the bag. Inside was a gown. It was deep green, almost black in the shadows, with a high collar and long sleeves. The fabric was heavy—velvet, maybe, or something older and stranger. Silver embroidery traced patterns along the hem and cuffs. Thorns. Woven so tightly they looked like they might draw blood. There was a note pinned to the sleeve. You cannot hide in plain clothes. At the Conclave, invisibility is not a shield. It's an invitation. Dress like you belong, and they will wonder why. Dress like you're afraid, and they will know exactly where to strike. —K

I needed to become invisible. Armor. I grabbed the cheapest, plainest clothes I owned. I pulled a baggy grey t-shirt over my head. The thick cotton swallowed my chest. It hid the soft curves they kept staring at. I shimmied into a pair of loose, faded denim jeans. They didn't hug my wide hips at all. They made me look like a shapeless, boring grey box. I tied my messy dark hair into a tight knot at the base of my neck. I looked exactly like a disposable servant. That was the absolute goal. I wanted them to look at me and feel absolutely nothing. I wanted them to lose interest.

By the time I reach my locker, my shoulders are already tight. I tug at the sleeves of my hoodie, pulling them over my hands until only my fingertips show. It’s an old habit. One of dozens. Little things I’ve taught myself over the years. Take up less space. Be quieter. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give people ammunition. The funny thing is, none of it actually works. People notice anyway. They always have. Maybe not in the way I want. But they notice. Too big. Too quiet. Too weird. Too invisible.

It was a difficult task, but we were determined to see it through. I was happy we had rented an apartment that was inconspicuous enough not to draw too much attention to ourselves. It was a small space, but it was enough for our needs. We made sure to keep our presence as lowkey as possible, avoiding the public eye as much as we could. We didn't want to raise any suspicions that could jeopardize our mission.