Miami is never quiet. Even at dawn there’s always something leaking through the cracks of the city. Sirens echo through alleyways. Reggaeton bass rattles thin apartment walls. Someone down the block is always yelling into a phone while a motorcycle screams down Calle Ocho like the rider has something to prove.
But this morning my apartment is still.
The silence presses in around me like the whole building is holding its breath. I lie here staring at the cracked ceiling above the bed while pale gray dawn light filters through broken blinds and dust floats through the air like tiny ghosts. Somewhere outside a truck rattles past, but even that sound feels distant.
What unsettles me most is what I don’t hear.
Every morning usually starts the same way. Rico stomps across the tile floor in his heavy boots while digging throughthe kitchen like the cabinets personally offended him. Doors slam. Bottles clink. Then his voice starts up, already sharp with accusation before the day has even begun.
But none of that happens.
The apartment stays quiet long enough for a knot of unease to form in my stomach.
I sit up slowly, careful not to move too fast. My ribs protest immediately, a dull ache tightening across my side as I shift my weight. The bruise there pulls when I breathe, blooming under my skin like something alive.
Memories from last night flicker through my mind in ugly flashes.
All I did was ask a question about the money.
I wanted to know how Rico suddenly had enough cash to buy a new motorcycle when I’m the one bartending double shifts just to keep the lights on in this miserable apartment. I asked once. Calm. Careful.
He never answered with words.
His elbow slammed into my ribs when I tried to walk away. His fist caught my shoulder next, followed by the sharp crack of his knuckles against my jaw. The fight ended the way it always does, with me curled against the wall while he stands over me breathing hard like I somehow caused the whole thing.
I never even mentioned the clubs he disappears into every night. Or how the fridge always stays stocked with beer while I count tips to make rent.
But when I said I wanted to send some money to my sister in Tampa, he called me selfish.
Then he hit me again.
The apartment smells stale now. Old beer and sweat cling to the air along with the cheap cologne Rico uses to hide the sour rot underneath. The smell makes my stomach twist as I swing my legs off the bed, and my bare feet touch the cold concrete floor.
That’s when I notice something else.
His phone is gone.
The cracked-screen piece of crap he never lets out of his sight isn’t sitting on the nightstand where it should be. A second glance around the room reveals something worse when I realize his backpack is missing too.
The one he guards like it holds the secrets of his entire life.
That bag never leaves his reach.
Except now it has.
A slow chill crawls down my spine as I scan the apartment again.
“Rico?” I call softly.
My voice sounds small in the empty room.
No answer.
I check the rest of the apartment anyway. The bathroom is empty. The sink is dry. Rico isn’t in the shower and there’s no damp towel tossed on the floor the way he usually leaves it.
When I reach the front door I notice it hanging slightly open, the chain dangling loose against the frame.
It looks like he left fast.
