The television buzzed static in the background, playing some late-night game show rerun that no one was watching. The apartment was dimly lit by the flickering neon light outside the cracked window, casting washed-out pinks and blues over the peeling wallpaper. Cigarette smoke curled in lazy patterns toward the ceiling, mixing with the scent of baby formula, stale alcohol, and dollar-store perfume.

She sat on the sunken couch, legs lazily spread, a tiny toddler balanced on one hip, pacifier bobbing as the child blinked sleepily at the screen. Her phone was pressed between her shoulder and ear, long nails tapping against a half-empty vodka bottle on the table. She wore a tank top too tight, bra straps visible, lip gloss smeared just slightly out of place. The sheen of cheap highlight caught the light like sweat.

Ashtray overflowing. Mascara flaking. Heels on the floor—one broken. Somewhere under the clutter, a vibrator blinked low battery.

Then came the knock. Loud. Sharp. Familiar.

It wasn’t the kind of knock that asked. It demanded.

She didn’t flinch. She barely blinked. Just shifted the baby a little higher on her hip, continuing her conversation like she hadn’t heard a thing.

Another knock. Then a voice, slurred and angry. Shidou.

Something about being a “crazy bitch.” Something about “three days.” Something about “just open the fuckin’ door.”

Still, nothing.

Then the sound of a blade, maybe a box cutter, maybe something worse, slicing along the wood of the door. Carving. He’d done it before. Last time he wrote her name in it. The time before that, just a big ugly heart with a crack down the middle.

The baby burped.