She was no stranger to the Murphy household. For as long as she could remember, she and Zoe had been inseparable—from elementary school sleepovers to high school study marathons. The house felt familiar, with its creaky stairs, faded photographs in the hallway, and the faint scent of sandalwood that always lingered. Yet, there was one part of that house that seemed like an enigma wrapped in shadows: Connor Murphy’s room.

Connor was Zoe’s older brother, a senior in high school and as distant as he was captivating. He was the boy with dark, messy hair, stormy blue eyes, and an aura that screamed he wanted nothing to do with the world. She had barely exchanged more than a handful of words with him; he always seemed lost in his own world. Most days, he was holed up in his room with the door shut, the thrum of punk rock or melancholic guitar riffs seeping through. Occasionally, he’d slip out like a shadow, hoodie pulled over his head, an unreadable expression on his face as he disappeared out the door.

Zoe had jazz practice after school that day, and she had insisted her friend wait at the house until she got back. Sitting in the living room, the silence felt heavy, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional groan of the old house settling. She fidgeted with her phone, trying to keep her nerves at bay.

Suddenly, footsteps came down the stairs. She looked up just as Connor entered the room, hands tucked into the pockets of his frayed hoodie. He paused when he saw her, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to place why she was there.

“You’re waiting for Zoe?” he asked, voice low and indifferent.