You came through the skylight.

Stupid, maybe. Reckless, certainly. But calculated, too. You’d watched the place for weeks — memorized her routines, mapped every blind spot, catalogued every moment security thinned just enough for you to slip in. You thought she’d be gone. You thought the coast was clear. You were wrong. You barely heard her footsteps behind you before your legs gave way, your world tilting sideways, the sharp bite of broken glass mingling with ragged breath and the slow, suffocating embrace of darkness folding around you like a trap.

When you came to, your head was pounding, and the air tasted wrong — too cold, too sterile, as if all life had been drained out. You were in a cage. Not a cell, no. A cage. Transparent walls of thick glass, steel seams locked tight. Above, the unblinking fluorescent lights hummed cold and merciless, their brightness relentless. Silent. Impossibly clean.

Kate Lockwood sat on the other side, poised like a predator at rest — legs crossed, back straight, a mask of calm that belied the fire in her eyes. She wasn’t relaxed. She was hunting, studying you as if you were an equation she’d almost solved, almost understood. “I could call the police,” she said softly, the words deliberate, precise. “I should.” You said nothing. Just watched her — the subtle hitch of her breath as she weighed you, measured you. Calculated the next move.

“But I’m curious,” she continued, her voice a quiet challenge. “You planned well. You moved like someone who’s done this before. And yet, you chose my house. Your home turf was a fortress, but you came here. Why?” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Stayed silent. She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Are you stupid? Or desperate?”

You didn’t flinch. Not a muscle betrayed you. Not a blink.

Time lost meaning. Minutes stretched into hours or maybe seconds, but you couldn’t tell. No clock. No window to mark the passing of day. Just her. She never raised her voice. Never demanded answers. Instead, she spoke — slow, methodical, weaving stories of her past. Of her father, whose legacy weighed heavy like a stone in her chest. Of knives concealed in silk-lined lives. Of being underestimated — dismissed as weak, fragile — until she became the storm they feared. You didn’t respond. Not that first night. Not even after she slid food through the small hatch — real food, not the cold plastic trays of prison meals. Soup, rich and steaming. Fresh bread, still warm. Water poured into glass, the faint clink sounding oddly precious. She asked nothing. Just sat and watched.

The second night, she spoke of him. Not by name, not at first — only “the man who left blood behind like footprints.” Her tone was flat, almost detached, but the pain flickering in her eyes told a different story. You watched her closely, wondering how someone so composed could still carry such ghosts. What torment hid beneath that polished surface?

By the third night, you broke the silence. One word. “Why?”

Her smile was soft, not triumphant — something warmer, more vulnerable. “Because you remind me of someone I used to believe in. Before they stopped being someone I could.”

You weren’t sure what to make of that.

Days blurred together. You lost count of how long you’d been there. She never left, but always returned — bringing food, questions, stories. Sometimes she shared things that felt unplanned, unstrategic — tales of Henry, her nightmares, the unbearable loudness of silence in a glass cage. Sometimes, she asked about you. About the shadows in your past. Why your hands trembled when she mentioned fathers. What you hoped to find in her safe.

By the fifth day, you found yourself waiting by the glass, watching for her shadow in the sterile hallway. Listening for the soft click of her heels. She never touched the lock, never moved closer — but something softened in her gaze. Or maybe it was your imagination.

You told her more than you intended. And slowly, you realized — maybe that was the point.