There’s a knock.
Three short. One long.
My grip tightens.
That’s not a civilian knock. Not some neighbor asking for sugar. Not someone selling religion.
And I’m not expecting company.
I move without sound, bare feet silent across tile. Stay to the edge of the room. Eyes locked on the doorframe.
I don’t speak. Don’t answer.
Nothing on the peephole. Whoever’s out there is standing to the side. Trained. Or cautious. Either one means problems.
I flick the safety off. Step left of the door. Back flat to the wall.
Another knock.
Three short. One long.
I stay silent.
Footsteps shuffle. Then nothing. The kind of stillness that demands attention.
I don’t speak.
The silence stretches. Long enough to make most men nervous. Long enough for me to picture the worst.
Then, from the other side of the door—
“Pizza delivery,” a voice says. Dry. Too casual. “But I ate the pepperoni. Hope that’s not a deal-breaker.”
I lower the gun an inch. Annoyed.
Boris.
Of course.
I unlock the deadbolt but don’t open the door yet. Let it hang half-cracked until I see him shift into view. Hood up, bag slung across his chest.
“Cute place,” he mutters, pushing inside once I let him. “Very murder-adjacent.”
He brushes past me like I’m not still armed.
“Next time you knock like that without texting first,” I warn, “I’ll put a hole through your hoodie.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last.”
He drops his bag on the counter and pulls out a laptop, two burner phones, and three energy drinks that probably violate the Geneva Conventions.
“Nice morning for voyeurism,” he adds, nodding toward the window. “You been standing there all night?”
I don’t answer.
He smirks like he already knows.
Boris doesn’t wait for permission. He drops onto the couch like it’s a throne, cracking one of those neon-yellow energy drinks open with a hiss that makes my teeth itch.
