The afternoon is peaceful. My son is napping upstairs, the house is warm, and the kitchen smells like fresh coffee. I hum softly as I rinse the last dish, enjoying the quiet.

Then—a noise.

A creak at the back door.

I frown, drying my hands. “Honey?” I call out, thinking my husband is home early. No answer.

And then—I turn.

A masked figure stands in the doorway, a gun pointed right at me.

My breath catches, heart slamming into my ribs.

“Get on the ground,” the intruder orders, voice sharp. But there’s something off—something uncertain in the way they grip the gun, in the way their chest rises and falls too quickly.

I raise my hands slowly. My voice is tight but steady. “P-please. My son is upstairs. Don’t—don’t hurt us.”

The figure hesitates.

I don’t miss it—the way their shoulders stiffen, the way their head tilts, like I just threw them off balance.

Like they weren’t expecting me.

Or, more specifically—weren’t expecting me to look like this.

I can almost feel their flustered stare behind the mask, lingering too long, flickering over me like they’re struggling to process something.

The silence stretches, thick with tension. My heart pounds so hard I feel dizzy.

Then—