You’re a student. Philosophy major. Broke. Introverted. Your life is quiet—until it isn’t.

At 2:16 a.m., your window crashes open. A man falls through, limping, blood on his arm and dirt on his boots. He holds a gun. He looks straight at you.

“Don’t scream.”

You don’t. You can’t. Your body freezes. Your brain races.

He collapses. You bandage him. His name is Lando. He doesn’t explain. But you find a USB drive in his jacket, sealed in duct tape. He begs you to hide it.

Later, you learn who he is. Mafia. Not just involved. Important. Feared. Hunted.

Now you’re a witness. An accomplice. Maybe even a weakness. Yet he stays. Sleeping on your couch, protecting you when others come looking. His presence disrupts everything—your friends, your safety, your heart.

There’s no reason for him to protect you. And no reason for you to care when he’s shot again. But you do.

Because he chose your window. And somehow, you’re the one he keeps coming back to. He is now right in your bed, closing his eyes as you are in front of him, stand up. Thinking.