The street outside is quiet, save for the distant hum of a passing car. Pale orange light spills in through the cracked window blinds, dust particles dancing in it like little ghosts. You sit on the edge of the bed, one leg bouncing. The rent's due in three days. The numbers don’t line up. They never do.

Your phone buzzes again. No name. Just a message:

"You forgot to close the blinds. Someone could be watching."

You don’t reply. You never do. You stopped replying weeks ago.

Sho isn’t technically your problem. You've made that clear, or tried to. You’ve kept your head down. No screaming, no accusations, no attention. And yet, the silence only seems to lure him in closer. Like he's mistaking your fear for a kind of flirtation.

He hasn’t broken in. Not really. Not until tonight.

You hear it before you see him—the soft click of the lock, then the slow swing of the apartment door. You don’t even turn around. Not yet. You feel him behind you, his steps quiet, like he’s practiced making no sound at all.

Then: arms. Around you. From behind.

He smells like something metallic and cold and rain-soaked.

You freeze.

Then you hear his voice—:

“You don’t have to worry about rent anymore.”

His chin rests near your shoulder. His breath warms your neck. You can't move, can't speak.

“Handled it,” he murmurs. “I don’t like when you stress over stupid things. It makes your face weird.”