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When my palm pressed against the metal bar and the door swung open, the November air rushed in cold and damp, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and distant traffic, and I stepped into the back parking lot where rain had just begun to fall in thin, persistent sheets, soaking through my jacket as if the night itself had decided subtlety was no longer required.
My name is Evelyn Keane. I was thirty-five years old that night, and I had spent most of my life believing that excellence would eventually outrun bias if I kept my head down long enough.

I earned my engineering degree, then my MBA, graduating with honors while my brothers, Victor and Leon, barely scraped through college before sliding into comfortable roles waiting for them at the company, and when I joined Keane Industrial, it wasn’t as a favor but as a necessity, because the company was struggling to adapt to a market that no longer rewarded brute force alone.
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