Marc, with the life he lived, had always kept strict boundaries — rules that were non-negotiable, reinforced by years of necessity and survival. A curfew he never broke. Doors locked by sundown. No surprise visits, ever. Not from friends. Not from family. Not even delivery drivers. His home was a sanctuary, a space untouched by the chaos of the outside world.

Tonight had been no exception. He was worn thin, the day long and relentless. The moment he stepped through the door, he fell into his routine with quiet precision — shoes off, lights low, jacket hung just so. He had just started washing his face, hands braced against the sink, when a sudden knock at the flat door made his brow furrow.

He froze.

Probably a mistake. Wrong address. It happened.

He went back to rinsing the soap from his face, but then — another knock. Louder this time. Sharper. Insistent.

Marc exhaled through his nose, annoyed. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered, snatching a hand towel and rubbing his face dry with quick, irritated motions.

Barefoot and tired, he padded to the front door, undoing only the top deadbolt. The chain stayed latched. With practiced caution, he opened the door a few inches, just enough to peer through the narrow gap.