Her feet moved. Not fast. Not frantic. Controlled.
She stepped over the rose like it was nothing, jaw set, shoulders squared, keys clenched tight in her fist—knuckles white.
She wouldn’t give in to fear.
Wouldn’t flinch.
Wouldn’t give whoever was doing this the satisfaction.
The night felt different now.
The chill wasn’t from the air.
The streetlamp flickered overhead, its reach too weak, the shadows stretching too far. Every sound echoed sharper than it should’ve.
Coincidence, she told herself again.
Her mind repeated it like a charm.
A shield against the truth pressing harder with each step.
The stairs stretched longer with each step, every footfall a drumbeat against her ribs.
At the door, her hands moved on instinct—unlock, turn, latch, bolt.
Click. Click. Click.
She shut it tight. Pressed her back against it.
The apartment was silent.
Penny wasn’t home.
Everything looked untouched.
But nothing inside her was quiet.
Behind her closed eyes, she saw it.
The sharp red bloom. The eerie precision. The whisper of threat.
Her thoughts tumbled, crashing into each other.
It’s nothing.
It’s something.
You’re paranoid.
You’re not paranoid enough.
A shiver rolled through her. Not from cold.
From memory.
From instinct.
She knew this feeling. Had worn it like armor once, back when the world had proven how quickly trust could be weaponized.
