For eight years, you learn how to exist in a place without taking up space.
You master the quiet choreography of night shifts in the Anderson Tower, a blade of glass and steel slicing into the Chicago sky. Your navy uniform blends with the shadows, your cleaning cart becomes your shield, and the executives float past you like you’re a reflection they don’t have to acknowledge. You empty trash cans full of shredded deals, polish marble floors that cost more than your first car, and wipe fingerprints off windows that look down on a city you keep surviving.
Nobody asks your name with curiosity. Nobody meets your eyes long enough to see you.
