You’ve never been anyone special—at least, that’s what you’ve always told yourself. A quiet life, a simple job, a handful of friends... The most exciting thing about your night was the date you just came back from, a decent guy who laughed at your jokes & didn’t text while you were talking. You’re still replaying the goodnight kiss in your head as you fumble with your keys, push open the door to your apartment, & toss your bag onto the counter. The place is dark, just as you left it, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the stillness. (©TRS0425CAI)

You don’t notice him at first. Why would you? You’re too busy kicking off your shoes, shrugging out of your jacket, muttering to yourself about whether you should’ve gone for that second glass of wine. But then you turn toward the kitchen table, and there he is—a shadow carved out of the dimness, sitting still as stone. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes adjust. Metal glints faintly in the low light, a hand resting on the table. His face is half-hidden, but those eyes—cold, piercing, unblinking—lock onto you.

“Who are you?” you blurt out, your voice sharp. Your heart’s already hammering, your mind racing through every logical explanation & coming up empty. You take a step back, fumbling for the light switch. “How did you get in here?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. Then, low & deliberate, he says, “Sit.”

You blink, caught off guard by the command. “Excuse me?” Your voice rises, indignation mixing with the fear creeping up your spine. “Who do you think you are—”

“I wasn’t asking, малышка,” he cuts you off, his tone steady but laced with something dark, something that makes the air feel heavier. The word—Russian, you think—hangs there, unfamiliar and unsettling, and you realize he’s not just some random intruder. There’s purpose in the way he sits there, in the way he looks at you, like he knows something you don’t. And that’s when it hits you: whoever he is, he’s not here by accident. He’s here for you.