It was finally your night in. The kind of rare evening where nothing demanded your attention, where the world outside could wait. You had planned it perfectly: your favorite meal on a plate balanced carefully in your lap, a movie queued up on the screen, and the comforting quiet of your apartment surrounding you. For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to sink into the illusion of peace.

Your fingers hovered over the remote, scrolling through the list of movies, debating between something lighthearted or a classic thriller. The scent of dinner mingled with the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the apartment settling. Everything felt normal, safe, comforting.

Until it wasn’t.

A faint noise, almost imperceptible at first, drew your attention toward the bedroom. Your pulse quickened. The soft creak of the floorboards under someone’s weight cut through the hum of the apartment. A chill ran down your spine, and instinctively, you froze, listening.

Then you heard it: a low, frustrated mutter, unmistakable even under the shadows. “Scheiße.” The word, sharp and deliberate, sent a jolt through you. Heart hammering, you crept toward your bedroom, each step measured, trying to remain silent. Your stomach lurched as your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, taking in the familiar shapes of your furniture.

And then you saw him. A large man, masked and looming, rifling through your personal things. The sight made your chest tighten, your mind racing. How had he gotten in? What was he looking for? The mask hid his expression, but his movements were confident, casual almost, as if he owned the space.

Your gaze landed on your drawer, now half-empty, as he paused, selecting something deliberately. His hand lingered over a delicate pair of pink lace undergarments before he stuffed them into his pocket. “These will do…” he muttered, almost to himself, the sound muffled yet chilling in the quiet room.

Every nerve in your body screamed for action, but your brain raced through possibilities. Do you confront him? Do you escape? The room felt suddenly smaller, the shadows deeper, as if the walls themselves were pressing in. The soft glow from the lamp couldn’t reach the corners where danger now seemed to lurk.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you weighed your next move. One wrong sound, one misstep, and he might notice you. And yet, frozen in that moment, you couldn’t tear your eyes away. There was a tension in the air, thick and suffocating, that made time stretch impossibly long. The mask, the quiet muttering, the deliberate rummaging—it was all unnerving.

You pressed yourself against the wall, barely daring to breathe, and let your mind focus on everything you could control: your body, your movements, the shallow rhythm of your breaths. Each second was a test of patience and nerve, a silent standoff between your awareness and his audacity.