“Fuck,” I hiss, folding the knife back into my pocket before I can be spotted by passing cars with a weapon drawn.
All I need is police attention when I’m already late getting home to Lena.
One block left.
A group of drunk college kids spills out of a bar ahead, laughing too loudly, taking up the entire sidewalk. Under normal circumstances, I’d cross the street to avoid them, but my paranoia has me seeking the safety of numbers tonight.
I hug the building side of the path as I pass them, letting their boisterous energy mask my presence.
One of them bumps into me, beer breath washing over me.
“Sorry, man,” he slurs, steadying himself on my shoulder.
I shrug away from his touch. “No problem.”
But there is a problem. The contact leaves my skin crawling, awareness radiating outward from where his fingers pressed. I hate being touched by strangers. Hate the vulnerability of it, the potential forescalation, and the way my Omega receptors light up with warning signals, whether the touch is threatening or not.
The group moves on, their voices fading as they round the corner, but my nerves remain on high alert.
Fifty yards to my building.
The streetlights on this block work, illuminating the cracked concrete steps leading up to the security door with its broken intercom. The familiar sight should bring relief, but tonight it only intensifies my awareness of the shadows between here and safety.
Twenty yards.
My keys are already in hand, the building key positioned between my fingers.
Ten yards.
A flicker of movement reflects in a parked car window, and I spin, keys raised, ready to strike.
The street behind me stretches empty in both directions.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m losing it, with stress and sleep deprivation creating phantoms where none exist. Or maybe this is what happens after spending my entire adult life in fight-or-flight mode. My brain has started manufacturing threats to justify the constant cortisol flood.
Five steps to the door.
The security light above the entrance kicks on, triggered by my movement. The sudden brightness blinds me for a second, and I blink the spots from my vision.
In the split second of blindness, a shadow detaches itself from the alley beside my building, sliding back into darkness.
I freeze, one foot on the bottom step.
“Who’s there?” I demand.
No response comes but for the distant rumble of a garbage truck and the whisper of wind through dead leaves.
I race up the steps, fumbling with my key in the lock.
The door swings open, and I slip inside, letting it close with a heavy thud behind me. The lobby air is thick with cigarettes, poorly masked by a cheap pine air freshener. The elevator is out of service again, so I take the stairs two at a time, every instinct urging me to put walls at my back.
Three flights up, I pause on the landing to catch my breath. From this vantage point, I can see down through the stairwell to the ground floor. No one follows. No footsteps echo on the concrete steps.
Just me and my imagination running wild again.
By the time I reach my floor, my heart rate hassettled somewhat, though sweat sticks my shirt to my back despite the chill in the air.
The key slides into my lock with familiar resistance, requiring the slight upward pressure I’ve memorized over months of late-night returns.
