I hate my luck.
I stared at the sheet of paper in my hand—one single line standing like proof that the universe got a kick out of screwing me over.
My expression was grim; my thoughts, darker still. Beneath the stillness of my face, something simmered, sharp and volatile.
I know your secret.
The words sat there in black ink, born from nowhere, wrapped in an unmarked envelope that had found its way to me. Now I sat in the thick, suffocating quiet of my room, trying to drag meaning out of it.
Despite being alone, the air felt colder—like someone else was here, watching. The paper's slick surface might as well have been the edge of a blade — pressed against my neck — each word carving into me with uncertainty and slow-brewing dread.
The moment my pulse steadied, I forced my awareness outward. My senses snapped into razor focus, stretching far beyond the walls of my room—enough to sweep almost the entire floor.
