This was an initiation.
The words pulsed through her mind as she stood, fingers tightening around the suitcase handle. A strange calm settled over her—not peace, but the sharp stillness of someone stepping onto a narrow ledge with no railings.
The clock struck 4:57 AM.
Time to move.
Elara crossed to the door, pausing with her hand on the lock. The hallway creak from earlier echoed in memory, a reminder that she was not as alone as her apartment pretended.
She turned the deadbolt slowly, silently, and pulled the door open.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint emergency strip-light that ran along the baseboards. The bulb above her flickered in uneven intervals, casting her elongated shadow across the wall in disjointed frames—like a stop-motion figure trying to escape its own silhouette.
She stepped out.
The door clicked shut behind her, a little too loud. She winced and gripped the suitcase tighter. Each wheel rotation on the old wood floor sounded amplified, unnatural. She kept her eyes forward, resisting the urge to glance at the darkened end of the hallway.
Halfway to the stairs, a soft noise made her stop.
A breath.
Not hers.
Not imagined.
It came from the corner behind her—too faint to identify, too real to ignore.
Her heart strained against her ribs as she continued walking, slower now, every instinct screaming don't look. She could feel something watching her, the weight of unseen attention following her down the hall.
She turned the stairwell corner—and nearly stumbled.
The stairwell lights were off.
Not dim. Not flickering.
Off.
Pitch black, as if the bulbs had been removed.
A ripple of cold rolled down her spine. Someone had prepared this path for her—guided her into it. She swallowed hard and descended step by step, one hand trailing the railing, the other clamped around her suitcase handle like a lifeline.
By the time she reached the ground floor, dawn's first thin blue light was creeping through the glass of the front door. The living room-like lobby felt abandoned, chairs pushed back slightly from their original positions as though someone had stood quickly and left.
Elara pushed through the building's front door.
The early morning air slapped her cheeks—cold, damp, metallic. The city was washed in pale indigo, light just beginning to gather along the horizon.
And at the curb sat a black SUV.
Engine running.
Tinted windows.
No visible driver.
Her pulse jumped.
She stepped forward cautiously, suitcase rolling beside her. The street was unnervingly empty—no joggers, no delivery trucks, no arguing neighbors. It felt staged.
The back door of the SUV unlocked with a soft click.
"Good morning, Ms. Vance."
The voice wasn't the courier's. It came from a man seated inside, face partially obscured by the shadowed interior. His tone was smooth, composed, but carried an undertone that made her skin tighten—like someone speaking to a valuable object rather than a person.
Before she could respond, a flicker of movement caught her eye.
Across the street, near the mouth of an alley, a figure leaned against the brick wall—hood pulled low, hands in pockets, body angled just enough to suggest casualness without achieving it.
Watching her.
Unmoving.
The figure wasn't with the SUV. She knew it instinctively. Their stillness wasn't expectant. It was observant. Measuring. As if they were waiting to see whether she would get inside the car.
Elara's breath hitched.
The man inside the SUV spoke again, impatience curling at the edges of his voice.
"Please enter, Ms. Vance. We're on a strict timeline."
But her eyes remained fixed on the figure across the street. And though she couldn't see their face beneath the hood, she felt the certainty of something unsettling:
They knew her.
Or knew about her.
And they weren't supposed to be there.
The SUV door hung open, waiting.
The hooded figure didn't move.
Elara stood between two choices—one outlined by the client, the other a threat she didn't yet understand.
She took a slow breath.
And stepped toward the waiting car.