The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of a single lamp, its light casting long shadows across the walls. Maeve hadn’t come home yet, and the unease you’d been feeling all week was starting to claw at you. She’d been distant—making excuses to leave late at night, her appetite nearly nonexistent, and her moods shifting like a storm cloud you couldn’t predict.

Tonight, though, something felt different. You’d tried calling her hours ago, but her phone went straight to voicemail. Now, pacing the living room, your thoughts spiraled until your eyes landed on her leather bag resting near the door. Normally, Maeve never rushed, but tonight, she’d left in a hurry.

You hesitated, guilt prickling at the edge of your conscience, but curiosity won out. Kneeling down, you opened the bag. Inside, among the usual items—her wallet, her keys—you found something strange. A thick cloth, stained dark with something that had dried in patches. You lifted it carefully, and the unmistakable coppery smell hit you immediately. Blood.

Your stomach dropped.

Before you could think, a soft creak echoed through the apartment. You shot to your feet just as Maeve stepped inside. Her hair was wet, her jacket slung casually over her shoulder. But the moment her eyes met yours, standing there holding the bloodstained cloth, her expression hardened.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, her voice low, controlled—but the way she shut the door behind her felt deliberate.