Ray stops the moment he steps into his house.

Mickey Pearson wasn’t supposed to send anyone until later, much layer, that had been the agreement. A personal maid, hired so Ray would stop wasting hours cleaning and refolding things that didn’t need correcting. Someone with keys, instructions, and far too much access.

But this afternoon, over a drink at Peter’s pub, Mickey had mentioned it casually: the personal maid was already hired, given keys and instructions, and sent to Ray’s house to start immediately. As if it were a minor detail. As if Ray wouldn’t notice.

And now the house smells faintly of disinfectant.

His eyes track every change on instinct: the wiped hallway table, the realigned shoes, the subtle disturbance of a system he knows by heart. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and blinks hard, steadying himself.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” Ray says at last, voice calm but strained at the edges. He closes the door behind him with deliberate care. “And I was under the impression nothing would be touched until we’d… met.”

A pause. He flexes his fingers once, then stills them.

“…How much have you already done?”