1
LUAN
The whiskey burns going down, but I don't taste it. The glass is cold against my palm. The gun is colder.
I sit in the dark because there's no reason not to. The leather sofa holds my weight without protest. My apartment is silent except for the low hum of the heating system and the occasional groan of wind against reinforced glass. Forty-three floors up, the Gold Coast sprawls beneath me, invisible and irrelevant.
The gun rests across my thigh. My finger stays outside the trigger guard. Discipline, not hesitation.
I should sleep. I won't. I can't.
My mind won't settle. Hasn't settled in weeks. Every time I try to force stillness, something pulls tighter in my chest. Not fear. I don't do fear. But the silence in this apartment feels different now. Heavier. Like it's waiting for something to break.
I reach for the glass again. The ice has melted enough that it barely clinks when I lift it. Watered down. Useless. I drink it anyway. The burn is duller now, but it still grounds me. Reminds me I'm still here. That I'm still capable of feeling something, even if it's just the scrape of whiskey against the back of my throat.
I set the glass down.
I should put the gun away. Go to bed.
The restlessness is too sharp tonight. It claws at the edges of my control, demanding release. But I don't move. Don't pace. Don't give in to the urge to do something to burn off the energy coiling in my chest.
Movement is a choice. Stillness is control.
I choose control.
Outside, the wind picks up. It rattles against the reinforced glass, testing the seams. The windows don't shake. They're built to withstand force. Just like everything else in this place.
Safe. Secure. Controlled.
Empty.
I exhale slowly through my nose. My hand tightens on the gun. Not enough to be dangerous. Just enough to feel the textured grip press into my palm.
The lock mechanism on the front door disengages with a soft click.
I raise the gun. Smooth. Controlled. Aimed at the sound.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. If it's a threat, I end it.
My pulse stays steady. My breathing doesn't change. I've done this before. I'll do it again. The only thing that matters is whether the person on the other side of that door is supposed to be here.
If they're not, they won't leave.
But then I hear her.
"No, I'm already here. Give me a second."
A woman's voice. Light. Easy. The kind of tone that has no business existing in my world.
I don't lower the gun. Not yet.
Her footsteps move across the entryway. Sneakers on hardwood, soft and quick. Grocery bags rustle. Plastic crinkles. She's carrying something heavy, her stride shifts, uneven for a moment before she adjusts.
She hasn't seen me. The layout of the apartment ensures it. The entryway opens to the left, straight into the kitchen. The living room sits separated to the right. She'd have to walk past the kitchen, turn the corner, and look directly at the sofa to know I'm here.
Instead, she moves into the kitchen. More rustling. A cabinet door opens, then another. She's putting things away. Methodical. Efficient. The rhythm of someone who's done this a hundred times before.
"Hold on, let me put you on speaker. I need both hands."
