You should lock your door.
My pulse slammed once, hard.
I stared at the screen, my breath catching. My brain tried to supply reasonable explanations—wrong number, prank, some automated warning.
But the words felt intentional. Like someone had typed them slowly.
Like someone had chosen them.
I forced myself to keep moving, but my body had already shifted into awareness. My hand tightened around my phone. My gaze flicked to windows, to shadows, to the narrow alley between two buildings.
I walked faster, boots striking the stone with sharp, echoing clicks.
I told myself not to look behind me.
I looked, anyway.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No figure. Just the city, indifferent.
I reached my building and fumbled my key, fingers suddenly clumsy. The door opened. I slipped inside and pulled it shut behind me, my back pressing against the wood as if it could hold the world out.
My chest rose and fell too quickly.
I looked down at my phone again.
Another message hadn’t come through. The first one sat there like a bruise.
I didn’t know who had sent it.
But the timing felt wrong. Too precise.
I climbed the stairs faster than usual, legs burning, breath catching, my mind racing ahead of my body.
On the fourth floor, I reached my door and unlocked it with shaking fingers. I stepped inside and turned the lock. Then the chain. Then I checked it twice, as if repetition could make it truer.
Only when the apartment was sealed did I let myself breathe.
The silence pressed in around me. The familiar pale walls. The desk. The uncomfortable chair. The window with its slice of sky.
Safe.
I told myself I was safe.
My phone buzzed again.
I nearly dropped it.
This time, it was Amaya.
Did you get home?
I swallowed hard and typed back:Yes. Home.
A beat later:
Amaya:Good. Lock your door.
