The Night They Came for Me
There's a silence that doesn't feel empty. It feels aimed.
That's what the hallway sounded like on the other side of my door.
I stood there in the dark, phone pressed so tight to my ear it hurt, Eli's voice a distant buzz against the roar of my own heartbeat. My eyes were fixed on the frosted glass panel inset in the door—the one I'd never really noticed before tonight. It had a shape in it now.
A shadow.
Tall. Still.
"Amira?" Eli's voice crackled through the line. "Talk to me. What do you see?"
I swallowed. My throat felt like sandpaper. "Somebody's still there," I whispered. "He's not knocking. Just… standing."
As if the figure heard me think it, the doorknob jiggled. A slow, testing twist.
Then a low male voice, muffled by wood. "Yeah. She's in."
My blood went cold.
"Eli," I breathed. "There's someone at my door. He just—he just told someone I'm here."
Everything on his end went very, very quiet. When he spoke again, his tone had changed. No more joking, no more tech-guy chill. It was crisp, clipped, all edges.
"Bathroom," he said. "Now. Take your phone, lock the door. Don't argue."
A sharp thud hit the door. The hinges rattled.
I flinched so hard the phone slipped down my cheek.
"Go, Amira!" Eli snapped.
The second kick was louder, angrier. The frame groaned. The chain clinked like it was halfway ripped free.
I moved. Bare feet silent on the floor, lungs burning because I didn't dare breathe too loud. The apartment felt suddenly too open—no corners to hide in, just exposed spaces leading to the place he wanted to reach.
My hand shook so badly I almost dropped the phone. I put Eli on hold with a clumsy thumb and punched in 9-1-1 as I slipped into the bathroom and turned the lock with a soft, desperate click.
"911, what is your emergency?"
I slid down behind the tub, knees to my chest, pressing the phone between my ear and shoulder so I could clamp both hands over my mouth if I needed to.
"Someone's breaking into my apartment," I whispered. "I—I'm in the bathroom. He kicked the door. I think he's inside."
"Ma'am, I need your address."
I gave it, forcing the words out around the tremor in my chest. The agent's tone stayed calm, steady, like this was just another Tuesday call.
"Units are on the way," she said. "Stay where you are. Stay as quiet as you can. Don't open the door for anyone but uniformed officers. If you can, keep me on the line."
"Okay," I breathed. "Okay—"
The sound that came then didn't belong in anyone's home.
BOOM.
Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. The bathroom floor quivered under me.
He was inside.
Everything in me wanted to scream. My body shook so hard my teeth almost chattered, but I dug my fingernails into the sides of my arms and held it in.
Footsteps. Heavy. Controlled. Not the frantic chaos of some desperate junkie smashing and grabbing whatever he could. These were slow, measured steps of someone who came for something specific.
Drawers yanked open. Cabinet doors slammed. A low curse.
"Ma'am?" the operator murmured. "Are you there?"
I pressed the phone closer. "He's in," I breathed. "He's… he's looking for something."
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Amira," I whispered.
"Okay, Amira. Officers are close. You're doing great. Stay hidden. Can you tell what he's doing?"
Something clattered—pens, glass, a picture frame. I heard my own voice in my head saying, I should really tidy the table, and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Then his voice, clearer now, floated down the hall.
"Where is it… where the hell is it…"
He wasn't here for jewelry. Or a TV.
My stomach dropped. The laptop.
He was here for my work. For the memo. For the leverage.
"You need to know," I whispered, the truth hitting me with a dizzying clarity, "this isn't random. Someone sent him."
"Right now we're focused on keeping you safe," the operator said gently. "You're not alone. Officers are minutes away."
Minutes felt like years.
A chair scraped. Papers swished. Then I heard a sound I recognized too well: the rip of a zipper being pulled along canvas.
My laptop bag.
A short, satisfied exhale.
Found it.
My hand flew to my mouth, as if I could stop that thought from leaking into the air. He had what he wanted. Maybe he would leave.
The footsteps started again. Closer.
Down the hall. Toward the bathroom.
My whole body went rigid.
The doorknob jiggled once, twice. A small testing rattle, like a cat pawing a mouse hole.
I squeezed my eyes shut, tears finally spilling over hot and fast. My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it through the door.
"Bathroom's locked," he muttered. The tone was annoyed, not surprised.
He tested it again, harder. The thin wood trembled.
I curled tighter, trying to make myself smaller than I was. Smaller than the fear pressing in from all sides.
"Amira?" the operator said softly. "We have units on your block. You're not alone. Just stay where you are."
From somewhere outside, faint but growing, came the sound I'd been waiting for—sirens. Not the distant wail of random patrols, but close, cutting through the street noise.
The footsteps outside the bathroom stilled.
For a full second, nothing moved.
Then I heard it—the quick retreat. Heavy boots pounding away down the hall. The scrape of something—my door?—slamming open again.
And then… nothing.
"Ma'am?" the operator said. "Do you hear the officers?"
I listened. Voices now, shouted, authoritative. "NYPD! Anyone inside?!"
"Yes," I croaked. "Yes. I'm here. He's gone."
"Stay in the bathroom until they announce themselves at the door," she instructed. "You did great, Amira."
I didn't feel great. I felt like my insides had been peeled out and left on the tile.
But I stayed put until there was a firm knock on the bathroom door and a man's voice said, "Ma'am? It's the NYPD. You can come out now."
My fingers fumbled with the lock. The door opened a crack, and two uniforms came into view—one tall, one shorter, both with that tense, wired look people get after an adrenaline spike.
The taller one scanned the tiny bathroom quickly, then stepped back to give me space. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. My voice scraped on the way out. "He… he took my laptop."
"Okay," the shorter officer said, pulling out a small notebook. "We're going to get a full statement. But first, let's get you out of here."
I stepped into what used to be my safe, curated little apartment and barely recognized it. The front door hung twisted on its hinges, deadbolt split clean through. My entryway table was half overturned, contents scattered like confetti—keys, mail, a little dish I kept my rings in.
The living room was worse. Drawers yanked open. Cushions tossed. The shelves I'd spent hours arranging now looked like a crime scene backdrop.
But the emptiest space in the room was where my laptop had been.
Just a faint rectangle of dust on the table.
"Ma'am," the taller officer said, "do you know anyone who might wish you harm? Any ongoing disputes? Stalkers? Exes?"
A bitter laugh tried to claw its way out, but all that came was a breath.
Do I know anyone?
Cassandra's face flashed in my mind—cool and composed, that warning written on the card she'd sent:
Careful, dear. Some stories end themselves.
"I… I'm in the middle of a dispute with my employer," I managed. "And… my boss's wife. She's… powerful."
"Name?"
I hesitated for half a second, then said it. "Cassandra Hale Archer."
Both officers wrote it down. They didn't react, but I saw the flicker of recognition in the shorter one's eyes at the Archer part. The scandal had clearly hit more than just my feed.
"Any idea what he might have been looking for?"
"He knew," I said, shaking now more from anger than fear. "He went straight for my laptop. He wasn't rummaging at random. He was looking for something specific on it. Documents. Files."
The taller officer nodded slowly. "Could be a targeted burglary. Could be intimidation."
"I told the dispatcher," I said. "This isn't random."
"We'll file it that way," he replied. "We'll have CSU come by in the morning to dust for prints, but…" He glanced at the splintered door, the gloved smudges on the knob. "No promises."
Of course not. Men like that didn't come bare-handed.
"You shouldn't stay here tonight," the shorter officer added. "The door's compromised, and you've clearly been targeted."
I looked around at the wreckage of my life and realized I didn't want to stay. The space felt violated, haunted by the echo of his boots and the weight of his intention.
"Okay," I whispered. "I'll go somewhere else."
"We'll write up the report," the tall one said. "You'll get a case number. If anything else happens—anything—you call us immediately."
I nodded, numb. They finished their questions, and somewhere in there I remembered to thank them for coming. It felt strange, thanking people for showing up after the worst part. But that's how it worked, didn't it? No one sees the moment the door breaks—just the aftermath.
When they left, the apartment felt even emptier.
My phone buzzed in my hand. I'd forgotten about Eli still being on hold.
I brought it back to my ear. "Eli?"
"Jesus, Rivera," he exhaled, voice raw. "I thought— You okay?"
I shut my eyes. "No. But I'm alive."
"What happened?"
"He broke the door," I said. "He went through everything. He took the laptop. And… one of my cloud backups is empty. I checked while they were filling out forms."
He swore under his breath, a string of words I'd never heard from him before. "That means he—or whoever he's working for—had your credentials. Or higher. That's not some freelance idiot. That's someone with access."
"Cassandra," I whispered. The name tasted like metal now. "Or someone working for her."
"I'm going to start a recovery attempt," he said. "Might be able to pull versions the delete scripts missed. But Amira…"
"What?"
"This just escalated. This isn't HR games or PR optics anymore. Someone was willing to send muscle to your door to erase a trail."
I looked at the shattered lock, the crooked frame, the footprint smeared on my floor.
"They want to erase me," I said softly.
Eli didn't argue.
"Find another place to sleep tonight," he said. "Somewhere not connected to your name if you can. Pay in cash if you've got it. And whatever you do, don't tell anyone where you're going unless you absolutely trust them."
I glanced around at my demolished apartment. My old life lay on the floor in fractured pieces. The version of me who thought this would stay corporate and clean was gone.
"Yeah," I said. "I got it."
We hung up.
I grabbed a small overnight bag, stuffed it with the bare minimum—clothes, toiletries, the external drive Eli had insisted I keep separate. I tucked it into the inner pocket like it was made of bone china.
At the door, I hesitated.
The apartment looked back at me, all sharp edges and broken lines. For years it had been my sanctuary. Tonight it was a crime scene.
I locked what was left of the door out of habit, even though it wouldn't hold anyone.
As I stepped into the hallway, the building's lights flickered again. For a heartbeat, the world went dim, then returned.
Someone had come for my laptop.
Next time, they might come for me.
I tightened my grip on my bag and walked toward the elevator, each step loud in the thin, echoing hall.
He took the machine.
But not all of the truth.
Not yet.