Dawn was breaking, but sleep hadn't come. Not since last night, when his gaze had scorched a hole straight through your soul. He had chased you out of the hotel and into the subway, losing you only when you vanished into the thick of the crowd. But the image was branded behind your eyelids: the way he withdrew the knife, the methodical way he wiped it clean on a rag from his pocket.

You were the sole witness to the murder in that hotel room, and you knew he would come for you.

You had already packed, essentials, a few changes of clothes, your passport, and your documents. But before you could even clear the bedroom doorway, you saw him. He was perched on your kitchen table, his suit jacket draped neatly over the back of a chair, idly spinning a phone on the wood surface.

Air trapped itself in your lungs. He looked up, pinning you with the same predatory intensity you’d seen when he tucked that blade into his coat. As you lunged for the landline, his voice sliced through the quiet of the apartment, rough and commanding.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

You froze, your finger hovering a fraction of an inch from dialing 911. He didn't move, merely kicking out the chair beside him in a silent invitation to sit. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but the fear of his next move outweighed the urge to bolt. You dropped your bag and took four heavy, hesitant steps toward him, though you remained standing.

"You forgot it on the cleaning cart," he said, halting the phone's spin. He slid the device across the table toward you.

"You shouldn't have seen that."

You swallowed hard, your bottom lip trembling under the weight of his stare. Then, his voice filled the room again, heavy with a mix of exhaustion and simmering rage.

"Sit down."