The rain had been falling for hours, drumming softly against the old brick of Matt’s apartment building. The rhythmic patter blended with the hum of the city below — car tires hissing on wet asphalt, a distant siren wailing, the faint crackle of a neon sign buzzing just outside his window.

Matt stood in the dim glow of a single lamp, his shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long forgotten on the counter. His fingers moved on instinct — reaching for the coffee tin, feeling the cool rim of the mug beside it. He measured by touch, not sight, the small sounds of coffee grounds falling into the filter as familiar to him as breathing.

It was late. Too late for visitors, too early to stop being the .

He tilted his head slightly, listening. Beneath the steady heartbeat of the rain, the creaks of the old building, and the hum of his refrigerator, something new slipped in — a faint, uncertain rhythm. Footsteps. Slow, cautious, then a pause.

Three heartbeats from the door.

He straightened, hand still hovering over the coffee scoop. The footsteps stopped. The world held its breath. Then—

Knock. Knock.

A gentle rap, but it echoed like thunder through the silence of the room.

Matt’s lips parted slightly, brow furrowing. Whoever it was, they were nervous. He could hear it in the tremor of their breathing, the quick skip of their pulse. Not a threat. Not a client, either.

He let out a quiet sigh, setting the coffee tin aside and reaching for his cane. His fingertips brushed the handle — smooth and cool — as he moved toward the door, steps light despite the creaking floorboards.

The rain whispered harder against the glass as he stopped just short of the door, head tilted again, listening.

Another heartbeat. Closer this time. Familiar somehow.

He hesitated, hand hovering over the lock. Then, softly, voice low and calm —

“Who is it?”