I adjust the bags as they start to slip. My nose is freezing. My fingers are numb. And the scent of hot food is practically clawing its way up into my brain, making my stomach growl in that obscene, desperate way that sounds likeFeed me. Feed me. FEED. ME.
Then I remember. Roxie—the building's perpetually stoned maintenance woman—was supposed to fix the alley-side lock six months ago. She never did. And thank every chaotic star in the sky for that, because this is the third time this month I've forgotten my key.
In Roxie we motherfucking trust.
I sigh and head toward the alley between our building and the suspiciously serene yoga studio next door. The one with the flickeringFind Inner Peacesign that looks like it's one spark away from a total existential breakdown—or not-so-spontaneous combustion.
And honestly? Same.
My stomach growls like a banshee beneath my puffer, and I glance down at the bags.
"Jakub won't miss one egg roll," I mumble to myself. "The man ordered five."
I wriggle one hand free, unwrap the waxy paper, and am immediately rewarded with the warm, greasy brilliance of Miss Ming's finest creation. It scorches my frozen fingertips, but I shove the glorious thing into my mouth anyway. If that woman didn't terrify me so much, I'd kiss the damn floor she walks on for making something this good.
"Miss?" a woman calls, stopping me just as I'm about to disappear down the alley.
"Yeah?" I answer, turning toward her.
She looks suspiciously dry for someone standing outside in the light drizzle of a snowstorm. Her short, pixie-cut brown hair frames a cute, freckled face, and for half a second, I assume she's a lost tourist.
"I saw you trying to get into the building," she says, gesturing toward the front glass doors—where my forehead print is probably still fogged onto the glass like a sad little ghost.
"Yeah, I work there," I reply, tilting my head, keeping my tone casual.
"Kind of late for an office job, isn't it?" she comments, lips pulling into a too-knowing smirk.
I shift the bags in my hands and channel Nadia's voice in my head—Always smile at nosy neighbors, but never tell them a damn thing.
"Well, you know lawyers," I say with a shrug. "They never stop until they crack the case."
"Oh? So you're a lawyer?"
I give her a tight-lipped smile, noncommittal. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Dahlia," she says, extending a hand toward me.
I don't take it. Instead, I grip the food tighter, offering a chirpy, fake-ass smile.
"Jessie," I reply brightly, jiggling the takeout bags in my hand as if that counts as a handshake.
"I just wanted to?—"
"Sorry, Dahlia," I cut in, taking a step back. "Lawyers can't really function without their midnight grub."
"Right," she says, her grin stretching wide and bright—but it never reaches her eyes. Something flickers behind them, cold and curious.
My skin prickles. Warning signs. Sirens screaming under my skin.
Something's wrong. She's wrong.
"I'll see you around later, Jessie," she adds, voice lilting and sing-songy like it's a threat wrapped in lace.
"Dahlia," I repeat with a polite nod, mimicking her same eerie tone—because two can play at the creepy name game.
I turn quickly and make my way toward the alleyway between buildings.
That interaction? Capital W, Weird. And something is definitely up. I can feel it, that crawling sensation across the back of my neck, the sense that every shadow might be watching.
