No movement.
No sound except the radiator hiss.
Good.
I fit the key in the lock and push the door open quietly.
The apartment is dark.I don’t turn on the lights.Darkness shows its own signs—shifts, outlines, disturbances.
It smells like her.
Vanilla.Light citrus.Laundry softener.A hint of shampoo from her bathroom.Something else—paper, maybe.Or fear.I don’t know how fear smells, but I know how it feels in a room.
My chest tightens.
I step inside.
Not cautious—aware.
There’s a difference.Cautious means uncertain.Aware means prepared.I’m the second.
My boots are silent on the floor as I walk through the entry.
Living room first:
Couch slightly askew.A blanket folded over the back.Her jacket thrown there last night when she came home shaking after the texts.The sight of it makes something in my jaw clench.
I lift the jacket.
Small.Warm.Worn at the sleeves.Smells faintly like her hair.
She wore this when she told us about the calls she didn’t answer.When she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified.When she stood in the tunnel and whispered I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I close my eyes.
The urge to crush the jacket in my fist surprises me.
I lay it back down gently.
Kitchen next.I move silently around the counter, checking drawers—not for threats, but for signs of disturbance.Nothing.Everything is too neat.Too controlled.Not a woman comfortable in her space.
A woman surviving in it.
Bathroom:
Shower curtain untouched.Towels folded with military precision.Toothbrush angled perfectly in a cup.Everything lined up like she’s preparing for inspection.
It hits me harder than it should.
She’s been living like she’s waiting for an attack.
Even when she was alone.
Even before we showed up.
I move to the bedroom.
I stop in the doorway.
