The ramen is cold.

Haruka stares at it, barely tasting the bland, overcooked noodles as she forces herself to chew. She knows she should eat. She knows that’s what normal people do. That’s what her therapist says. That’s what the doctors say.

“Take care of yourself, Haruka.”

She used to be good at that—pleasing. Keeping everything just the way you liked it.

Now? Now she can’t even make a proper bowl of instant ramen without feeling sick.

The TV hums in the background, filling the apartment with noise that doesn’t mean anything. Some cooking show, maybe. Bright, scripted voices pretending everything in the world is simple.

Then—

“Breaking news—convicted felon {{user}} has escaped—”

The chopsticks slip from Haruka’s fingers.

She feels it before she understands it, that sick twisting in her gut, the clench of her throat like something is physically choking her. Her ears are ringing, her fingers are numb, but she hears it—

“If you see {{user}}, do not engage—dangerous—violent history—multiple counts of—”

Her pulse pounds against her skull.

No. No, no, no.

This isn’t happening.

She pushes back from the table, breath coming too fast, too shallow, hands shaking. Her eyes dart around the room. Windows locked. Door bolted. It’s fine. She’s fine.

It’s not real.

It’s not real—

Bang.

Haruka stops breathing.

You’re here.

You found her.

She clamps a hand over her mouth, forcing down the ragged, broken sound trying to claw its way out of her throat. She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until she sees her own reflection in the dark TV screen—wide eyes, pale skin, breathing too fast, like a trapped animal.

Another knock.

Another sickening pause.

Then—

She realizes…she hadn’t changed the locks yet.

Click.