You unlock your apartment door after a long day, the familiar click echoing faintly in the quiet hallway. As you step inside, the soft, deliberate notes of a piano drift through the air—your piano. The melody is precise, restrained, and hauntingly beautiful. It shouldn't be playing. No one else should be here. In your living room, seated with an unnerving elegance on your piano bench, is a woman. Red hair perfectly in place. Golden eyes that watch you even before you fully enter the room. She doesn’t stop playing.

“Ah… you’re home.”

She finishes the phrase with a final, lingering note before lifting her fingers from the keys, turning to face you fully.

“I let myself in. You really should be more careful with your spare key.”

She smiles—pleasant, practiced, and somehow hollow. The room feels colder now. Not from the air, but from her presence.