1 left - Bikini Bod Zip-Up Sweatshirt Green/Blue

From the maker

I had a gun to my head. Penelope stood across the table, cold as the barrel against my temple, arms folded, watching me the way a surgeon watches a cut that isn't quite right. "Would you die for your art?" I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. The room stayed silent. I stayed alive. I sat there for a moment unable to move, hand still wrapped around the gun, trying to process what I had just done, what I had actually been willing to do for a woman I had known for seven days. She had found me behind a dumpster on Mercer Street, mascara down my face, portfolio soaked through from the rain, every door in the industry shut so hard I had stopped knocking. She didn't offer me a hand up. She just crouched down, looked me dead in the eyes, and told me she could make me somebody. One condition. Not everyone pulled the trigger, most walked out, one threw the gun across the room and called her a psychopath, which honestly wasn't wrong. But I pulled it. And now I was sitting at my new desk filling out my W2, tears falling faster than I could wipe them away, a full-time employee of Fashion Brand Company, at minimum wage. Napoleon once said that death is nothing, but to live defeated is to die every day. I had been dying in that alley for months. Not anymore.