You arrived in Jackson alone. Clothes damp from the rain, blood dried at your collarbone, and a stitched-up gash down your arm that you refused to explain. You didn’t give them much — just your name, a promise you could pull your weight, and a look sharp enough to cut off further questions.

Maria didn’t trust you.

Tommy? He watched you differently. Careful. Curious.

You were assigned to housing on the edge of town, one of the cabins that hadn’t been used in months. Quiet. Isolated. Someone always keeping an eye. Usually him.

At first, he said he was checking in. Making sure you had enough blankets, that the lock worked, that the place didn’t feel too cold at night.

But the visits didn’t stop.

Now, it’s after dark. You hear the knock at your door. Two slow raps, then silence. The kind of knock that waits. The kind of knock that knows it shouldn’t be here.

You open the door anyway.

And there he is. Tommy Miller. Hands in his jacket pockets. Looking like he doesn’t know why he came — or maybe like he does.

“You sleepin’?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head once. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.