My stomach drops.
"Please return inside," the other says.
I stumble back. Almost fall. A scream builds in my throat but gets stuck somewhere behind my teeth. I look down at the floor. At the reality sinking in like ice water. Then it hits me.
The gun. Kitchen. I have a gun.
Who are they? What do they want? My mind spins. There's a very high possibility that I'm legally insane right now. Standing here shaking. Holding a loaded gun in my near future. None of this can be real. None of this can be happening.
But it is. Maybe at least.
I stay frozen for one more heartbeat. Two. Three. Then I run.
Back through the house. Into the kitchen. My heels stick to the floor—spilled wine from dinner, or sweat, or both. Straight to the drawer. Lean down fast and grab the Glock from the floor. I shot at Drogo; I remember that. So it must be real. Right?
Check it—still loaded, magazine almost full, safety off because I never put it back on after—
The cold metal burns against my shaking hands. Heavy. Real. The only solid thing in a world that's tilting sideways.
I look toward the kitchen door. The one that leads to the side yard. Another exit. Okay. Okay. Think, woman. Think.
Gun in hand, I move slowly toward the door. Every step deliberate. Breath held. I reach for the handle. Turn it. Pull.
Another man. Same suit. Same expressionless face. Same calm, terrifying politeness.
"Miss." He looks down briefly when he sees the gun pointed at his chest. Then back up at me. Meets my eyes. "Please get back inside."
I raise the gun higher. Press it directly over his heart. "Move."
He doesn't. Just stands there. Doesn't reach for a weapon. Doesn't grab my wrist. Doesn't do anything except look at me with those dead, patient eyes.
"Miss," he repeats. Calmer than anyone should be with a gun aimed at their chest. "Please. Get back inside."
I start trembling. Full-body shakes. The gun wavers in my grip.
"So the way out is murder?" My voice cracks. High. Desperate. "That's what you're telling me? I have to kill you to leave my own fucking house?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't move. Just waits. Like he has all the time in the world. Like I'm the one trapped. Not him.
The gun shakes harder in my hands. Tears burn behind my eyes. "Who sent you?" I demand. "Who—Drogo? Did Drogo send you?"
Still nothing. No confirmation. No denial. Just that patient, immovable calm.
I lower the gun slowly. Not because I want to. Because my hands are shaking too badly to hold it steady. Because the reality is sinking in. I'm trapped. In my own house. With guards at every door. No phone. No internet. No way out that doesn't involve pulling this trigger. And I don't know if I can. Don't know if I should.
The man at the door tilts his head slightly. "Miss. Inside. Please." It's not a request. It's never been a request.
I step back. Lower the gun completely. Let it hang at my side. He nods once. Satisfied. Then closes the door.
The lock clicks from the outside. Heavy. Final. The sound of a prison door sealing shut.
I stand there in my kitchen. Alone. Trapped. Still holding the gun. The silence presses down like a physical weight, too thick after the panic and the screams. My bare feet are cold against the tile. The house feels smaller now. The walls closer. Every window a reminder that I can see out but can't get out.
Tears spill over. Hot. Fast. Unstoppable.
"Drogo," I whisper to the empty room. To the man who isn't here. To the ghost I thought I'd finally touched. "What did you do?"
No answer. Just silence.
