Perfect neighbor. The dead don’t ask questions.
My unit’s at the far end. 3C. The numbers have peeled off the door, leaving just ghost marks in faded adhesive and primer. Someone scraped them off in a hurry. Or they fell off from neglect.
I unlock it fast, step inside, and shut the door with a quiet click.
The smell hits first. Stale air laced with lemon cleaner and something underneath; old cigarettes, maybe. But it’s clean.
Small fucking miracles.
I stand still for a second, letting my eyes sweep the space.
It’s exactly what Ray promised: anonymous, mismatched, and ugly. Couch too wide for the room. A crooked bookshelf with a missing shelf. A mattress in the bedroom that takes up most of the floor. Everything looks like it came from a Craigslist divorce sale.
I like it.
First thing I do is sweep the place. Hall closet. Bathroom cabinet. Inside the duct above the microwave. Under the sink. Nothing.
Still, I move slow. One room at a time. Not because I expect a trap—if there was one, I’d already be bleeding—but because moving fast in a new space is how people get shot.
Once I’m satisfied, I slide open the glass balcony door. It screeches halfway, then sticks. I shove it hard with my shoulder and step out.
The view hits like a punch of heat. Direct line of sight to the building across the lot. Crumbling stucco. A row of balconies. Most are dead; closed curtains, no signs of life. But that one—
Top floor, second from the left. Door slightly open. Mismatched pots lining the rail. Something green growing wild against all odds in this concrete wasteland.
I stare for a second. Then back inside.
The place needs a setup. I uncap the vent behind the fridge and slide a weapon case inside. Knife goes under the sink on themagnetic mount. Phone charger by the bed. Burner goes into the cereal box.
I take inventory while heating water in a rusted kettle I found on top of the fridge. No tea. No sugar. One stained mug with a tourist print—What Happens in Vegas… already scratched halfway off.
Fitting.
I stand at the counter, watching the water boil. My mind won’t shut up about that night. The apartment. The couch. Her drunk fingers wrapped around my cock like she owned it.
Wine and desperation on her tongue. Sweet and bitter and completely fucking reckless.
I grip the counter edge. Hard enough to hurt.
Focus.
Movement catches my peripheral vision.
I step to the balcony, expecting nothing but empty balconies and dead air.
Instead—
Blyat.
And there she is.
A woman on a balcony.
Across the lot.
Barefoot, wearing a T-shirt that doesn’t even try to cover the tops of her thighs. Her shoulder-length chestnut brown hair falls loose around her face, catching the breeze. Air moves through it like fingers.
She leans forward.
