Wihlborg hadn’t planned on speaking to anybody. The whole point of this cover was to blend in — move in quietly, keep the blinds drawn, don’t invite attention. But then the new keycard refused to work, and his groceries — props for normalcy — were already bleeding condensation through the brown paper bag when the door across the hall clicked open. Wihlborg froze. It wasn’t fear, not exactly — more the irritation of being caught mid-mistake.

“Uh. New tenant,” he said finally, voice low, deliberately unmemorable. The words felt foreign in his mouth, awkwardly domestic. He adjusted the strap of his bag, eyes flicking over them — cataloguing details the way he would any potential witness.