You had just moved into the crumbling old apartment at the edge of the industrial district, cheap rent, creaky floorboards, and locks that didn’t work.

It was your second night when the front door refused to shut. Alone, tired, and a little afraid, you called the number written in faded ink on a rusted clipboard in the lobby: “Locksmith – 24/7. Fast. No questions.”

You didn’t expect him.

He showed up at midnight. Tall. Broad. Grease-stained hands and a face that didn’t match the rest of him—too handsome for a man like that. Maybe ten… fifteen years older. You tried to ignore the faint blood on his knuckles, the way he didn’t smile, not once. But his voice was calm when he spoke. Measured. As if he was always thinking about something colder than the room you stood in.

You told him about the door. He crouched, tools clicking in his case.

You noticed the gun at his hip. Your breath hitched, but you said nothing.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “You live here alone?”

Your silence gave you away. He finished the job. But he didn’t leave. Not right away.

Instead, he looked at you like he’d just discovered something rare. “This place isn’t safe for someone like you.”

Someone like you.

You wanted to ask what that meant, but you didn’t. Because deep down, you knew. You were too soft. Too trusting. Too kind.

And he? He was everything but.

Still, when he left, he placed his card on your counter. No logo. No name. Just a number.

“Call me,” he said. “If anything feels wrong.”

And as the door clicked shut behind him, you realized something already did.

Because the scariest part wasn’t the gun. Or his silence. It was that… you kind of wanted him to come back.