Up three flights, then down a corridor lined with stained carpet and fluorescent lighting that flickers every few seconds. The apartment door is painted the same dead grey as the rest of the building, but the number plate is clean, the metal polished. He unlocks the door, steps aside, and waits for me to go in first.
I do.
Inside, the air is cold and dry. The place is bigger than I expect, open plan, kitchen merging into a living space with nothing to separate them except a butcher-block counter. There's barely any furniture: one couch, a table with two chairs, a sideboard with nothing on it but a single glass. No pictures, no mess, nothing that says a person lives here.
He steps in behind me and closes the door, then locks it. The sound is sharp, and I flinch. I don't know what to do, so I stand in the entry, arms at my sides.
He sets the duffel on the counter, unzips it, and takes out a big plastic bag. Inside of which is a bottle of water, two meal bars, and a folded shirt. He puts all of this on the counter and then steps back.
"Eat," he says.
I don't move. The last time someone told me to eat, it was a test, and when I reached for the food, I lost two teeth. I wait.
He sees me hesitate, and something like confusion flickers across his face before smoothing out.
"It's not poisoned," he says. He doesn't say it as a reassurance. It's just information, the same way you'd say the sky is blue.
I move closer, still wary. I reach for the bottle, twist the cap, and take a slow sip. Then a bigger one. The water is ice cold, it hurts going down, but it's clean. The meal bars are protein, the flavorless kind, but my stomach tightens at the sight of them.
Unwrapping one, my hands shake, and force myself to take a bite. The taste is dry and chalky, but I chew and swallow and wait for the burn, the bitter aftertaste of additives or drugs, but there's nothing. Just bland, dense calories.
He watches me eat, not moving, not blinking. The way you'd watch a stray animal to see if it would bolt.
When the bar is gone, I drink the rest of the water, making sure to finish it all. He picks up the empty wrapper, folds it neatly, and tosses it in the bin.
He gestures to the shirt. "Change."
I stare at him, not sure if he wants me to do it here or somewhere else. There's no bathroom in sight.
"Bedroom. Second door." He points down the hall.
I take the shirt and go, steps silent on the floor. The room is small, just a bed and a dresser. The sheets are clean, the bed made with tight corners. There's a window, but the blinds are closed tight. The shirt is soft, some kind of cotton.
I look in the mirror above the dresser. My face is pale, eyes ringed with grey. The bruises on my neck are turning yellow, but the shape of the collar is still there, a shadow in the skin. I pull the shirt up to try hide it.
From the main room, he calls, "When you're done, sit. Couch."
Walking back out, I obey his instructions. I take the farthest cushion, leave space between us. He sits in the chair, leans forward, hands clasped. He doesn't look at me directly. Instead, he stares at the clock.
We sit like that for a long time. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. My mind drifts, detaching from my body, floating up and away. This is how you survive: make yourself small, make yourself invisible, wait for the storm to pass.
Finally, he says, "You sleep here tonight."
I nod.
He gets up, crosses the room, and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and close, then nothing. When he comes back, he's carrying another bottle of water, which he puts on the table in front of me.
He watches me until I pick it up, then nods, satisfied.
"You can shower, if you want. Or sleep." The words are mechanical, but not cruel.
I look at the clock. It's almost midnight.
"Thank you," I say, because that's what you're supposed to say.
He blinks, like he doesn't understand. Then he nods once.
He goes to his room and closes the door behind him.
