The awareness never fades. Someone knows where I live. Someone has been inside. And the man from the café—Felix Rudenko—appeared in my neighborhood with timing too precise to be coincidence.
I stay late at the office on Thursday, telling myself it’s because I need to catch up on work. The truth is I’m avoiding my apartment, the space that doesn’t feel safe anymore. By the time I finish reviewing donor compliance reports for a congressional campaign, the building has emptied. Security locked the main entrance at eight, routing late workers through the parking garage access.
I gather my things slowly, reluctant to leave the fluorescent safety of the office. My bag feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the printed files I’ve been carrying everywhere since the break-in—copies of Ethan’s research, backup documentation in case something happens to the digital versions.
The elevator ride down to the garage is too quiet, the hum of machinery amplified in the enclosed space. The doors open onto concrete and dim lighting, my car parked three rows back near the structural support column.
I step out and catch a scent hanging in the stale garage air. Cologne.
I think of the hallway at the gala. The café in Brooklyn. It’s the same scent that’s lingered both times, subtle but distinct.
He’s been here.
My hands fumble for my phone, adrenaline sharpening my focus as I pull up the home camera app. I should wait until I’m in the car, doors locked, engine running. The dread pooling in my stomach won’t wait.
I tap through to last night’s footage and scroll backward through the timestamp: midnight, 1:00 a.m., 2:15 a.m.
The screen shows my bedroom in grainy night-vision green. I’m asleep, curled on my side facing the wall, completely unaware.
Then the door opens.
A figure enters the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with careful precision. He’s wearing a mask, black fabric covering everything below his eyes, but the build is unmistakable. He walks around the room slowly, not touching anything, just observing.
Then he does something that stops my breath entirely.
He pulls the chair from my desk and positions it beside the bed. He sits, watching me sleep. The timestamp ticks forward—five minutes, ten, fifteen. He doesn’t move except to tilt his head slightly, studying me with the kind of focused attention that makes my skin crawl.
Eventually he stands, adjusts the chair back to its original position, and leaves as quietly as he entered.
The footage continues. I sleep through the entire thing, oblivious.
My jaw drops, nausea rising sharp and acidic. The scent in the garage matches the cologne I remember from the café.Felix Rudenko was in my apartment. In my bedroom. Watching me while I slept.
Movement snaps my attention back to the present. A white van parked across two spaces near the garage exit, engine running, exhaust curling in the cold air. No plates on the back. Two men visible through the windshield, both watching the elevator bank where I just emerged.
Watching me.
I change direction casually, turning back toward the elevator as if I forgot something upstairs. My hand tightens around my phone, thumb hovering over the emergency call screen.
“Diana Clarke.”
The voice cuts across the garage, sharp and authoritative. One of the men has stepped out of the van, blocking the path to the elevator. He’s mid-forties, stocky build, wearing a dark jacket that hangs heavy on one side. Gun, probably.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I don’t respond, don’t acknowledge him. Instead, I pivot hard and run toward the stairwell exit on the opposite side of the garage.
Footsteps echo behind me, concrete amplifying the sound into a thunderous pursuit. I sprint between parked cars, my bag slamming against my hip, breath coming in sharp gasps. The stairwell door is thirty feet away, twenty, ten—
A second man appears from behind a support column, cutting me off. Younger, leaner, faster. He grabs my arm and yanks me backward with enough force that I stumble.
“Stop fighting,” the first man growls, reaching for my other arm.
I don’t stop. I twist violently, kicking out at the younger man’s knee. My heel connects hard enough that he grunts andhis grip loosens. I wrench free and lunge toward my car, keys already in my hand.
The key fob is ripped from my grip before I can hit the unlock button. Strong hands clamp around both my arms, dragging me backward toward the van. I scream, the sound raw and desperate, echoing uselessly through the empty garage.
“Shut her up,” one of them snaps.
I claw at the arms holding me, nails scraping against fabric and skin. My bag falls, contents scattering across the concrete. I bite down on the hand covering my mouth and taste copper. Someone curses violently.
