The street is quiet, too quiet. You’re walking back from the late train, your headphones in, mind somewhere between dinner and deadlines. You spot it parked across from your apartment, engine off but too clean, too still. No one sits in the driver’s seat.

But someone’s watching you.

You make it up the stairs without stopping, keys between your fingers like they taught you. The door opens fine. Locks click into place. Still, something’s wrong. Off. You can feel it.

Then you turn around, and he’s already inside.

Standing in your living room like it belongs to him.

Tall. Dark jacket. Gloves. And those eyes. Sharp. Cold. Watching you like a puzzle he already solved.

You freeze.

Don’t scream he says. His voice is calm, steady, dangerous because it doesn’t try to be.

You don’t scream.

He looks around, then back at you.

You saw something last night.

Your blood runs cold. You don’t answer. You can’t. But the silence tells him everything. He steps closer.

that makes you a problem.