Chapter 2 - Chapter One: The quiet Before

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

The day clings to me.

It's in the ache behind my eyes, the dull throb at the base of my skull. I kick off my shoes the second I step inside, shrug off my jacket, and let my bag slide from my shoulder to the floor. It can stay there. Everything can wait.

The apartment is quiet, the way I like it. A single lamp casts a warm glow over the worn-out couch, my half-empty coffee cup from this morning still sitting on the table. I should wash it, should at least pretend I have my life together, but I don't move.

Instead, I lean against the counter, rubbing the knot in my neck. I've been running on caffeine all week, and it's catching up to me. Just five minutes. That's all I need.

I close my eyes. Breathe in.

And that's when I see it.

The envelope.

It sits right on the counter—where I know it wasn't this morning. Pale, almost elegant, with my name written in a careful, slanted hand.

My stomach tightens.

I don't move toward it. Not yet. My brain is already making excuses, trying to fill in gaps—maybe I forgot I put it there, maybe it's just a bill, maybe—

The knock at the door cuts through the silence.

Loud. Sharp.

And suddenly, exhaustion is the last thing I feel.

The knock echoes through the apartment.

I don't move at first. My fingers are still curled against the counter, my breadth locked somewhere in the ribs.

It's late. Too late for visitors.

I tell myself to ignore it. To let it go. Maybe it's a mistake, someone at the wrong door. That happens, right? But then it comes again—louder this time more insistent.

My pulse stirs.

I force my legs to move, padding towards the door, peeking through the peephole. Empty.

No one's there.

The hallway is quiet, overhead light flickering, but there's no shadow no presence lingering.

I exhale. My shoulders loosen—just slightly, Maybe it was a prank, Maybe it was nothing.

I turn back—

And stop.

There's something on the floor.

A small, black card. Slipped under the door, crisp against the hardwood floor.

I stare at it, every nerve in my body tightening at once. I don't want to pick it up, don't want to touch whatever it is, but my body betrays me. I crouch, fingertips brushing the edge, flipping it over.

One word.

"Open."

It's in the same sharp handwriting as the letter.

A chill slides down my spine.

My eyes flick to the envelope still waiting on the counter.

I don't know why, but I suddenly feel like I'm being watched.

I swallow. My throat is dry.

I glance at the peephole again—still nothing. No footsteps retreating down the hall, no sign that anyone was ever there.

But someone was.

I stare at the card in my hand, the ink bold against the matte surface. Open.

The envelope waits on the counter.

I don't want to listen to it. I should throw the whole thing away, pretend none of this happened, lock my door and go to bed. But something—curiosity, or maybe something darker—keeps me rooted in place.

My feet move before I can stop them.

The paper is smooth under my fingertips as I pick up the envelope. A neat, almost elegant fold. The kind that says whoever sent it wasn't in a rush. They took their time.

I tear the seal.

Inside, a single sheet of paper.

My breath stutters as I unfold it.

The handwriting is the same as before—sharp, deliberate.

Emilia,

You owe more than you think.

Let's start with a conversation.

Be ready.

I don't realize I've stepped back until my hip hits the counter.

My mind scrambles for answers, but none come. My name. My address. The message. What the hell does it mean?

The apartment suddenly feels too small, the silence pressing in from all sides. My pulse is a slow, measured thump in my ears.

Then, my phone buzzes.

I jerk at the sound, my fingers shaking as I fumble for it.

Unknown Number.

My stomach twists.

It buzzes again. And again.

Then, a message.

"You left the door unlocked."

A breath shatters out of me. I whirl toward the door, heart hammering against my ribs. I locked it. I know I did.

But when I reach for the handle—

It turns too easily.

The door swings open an inch. Then two.

I freeze.

The hallway is still empty, stretching out in both directions, lit by that same flickering light. Too quiet. Too still.

I know I locked the door when I came in. I always do.

My pulse pounds as I take a step back, then another. My fingers are clammy around my phone, the screen still glowing. Unknown Number.

My eyes flick back to the message. You left the door unlocked.

I press my thumb against the lock button, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Call someone. Call the police. Do something.

Another message comes through.

"You're not as alone as you think."

A breath shatters out of me.

I whirl around, scanning the apartment—the dim living room, the kitchen, the narrow hallway leading to my bedroom. I'm alone. I should be alone.

But now, I feel it.

A presence.

Not a sound, not a shadow—just a shift in the air, the kind that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

I take another step back. My heel bumps against something.

The envelope.

It slipped from my hand, lying open on the floor, its contents spilling out. I owe more than I think.

My mind claws at the words, trying to make sense of them, trying to piece together who could have sent this—who would go this far.

Then the power cuts out.

A deep, swallowing blackness.

My breath stops.

The only light left is the glow of my phone screen, casting sharp shadows over my shaking hands.

Then, from somewhere inside the apartment—a floorboard creaks.

Not from the hallway. Not from outside.

From inside my bedroom.

I don't breathe.

The air feels cold, too cold, like it's pressing against my skin. My fingers tremble as I hold my phone tighter, but the light seems to dim, as if the darkness is swallowing everything around me.

The floorboard creaks again—closer this time.

I want to scream. I want to run. But my legs feel like lead, my heart thundering in my chest, too loud to even hear the sound of my own thoughts.

Why did I open the envelope? Why did I read the damn card?

My phone buzzes again, and I nearly drop it in panic.

Unknown Number.

I can't bring myself to check the message.

Instead, my eyes are locked on my bedroom door—the only place in the apartment where I haven't looked.

I take a step toward it, my feet moving without thought, as if some invisible force is pulling me.

Another creak. A sound of movement, heavy and slow.

Someone is in there.

I can feel them.

I reach for the door.

The knob is cool under my fingertips. I twist it slowly, afraid to make any sound. The door clicks open, just a fraction.

The room is dark, the shadows long and twisted against the walls. My breath catches as I scan the space, trying to catch a glimpse of anything—a figure, a shape, a movement.

But there's nothing.

I step inside.

The air is thick in here, suffocating. My eyes move across the room in rapid, frantic sweeps—until they fall on the bed.

There's something on it.

A black card, exactly like the one from the door, placed neatly in the center of the duvet.

I feel my chest tighten. Another card.

I reach out—hesitate—and then snatch it up, tearing it open without thinking.

"We're not done yet."

I stagger back, the words burning in my chest. My head spins. This can't be happening.

I try to focus, try to force the panic down, but then something else catches my eye—an imprint on the sheets.

A figure, still warm, where someone's body had lain.

My body freezes.

The figure isn't just a shape in the fabric. It's the outline of someone who had been there—a person who was once here.

And I wasn't alone.

Not anymore.

My throat locks up.

I stagger back, my legs weak beneath me. The imprint on the sheets is still there—clear, undeniable. Someone was here. Recently.

My mind latches onto the thought, a desperate attempt at logic, but nothing about this is logical.

I scan the room again. The closet. The window. The corners where shadows pool. Nothing.

Then—

A whisper.

Soft. Almost like breath against my ear.

I spin around so fast my vision blurs.

Nothing.

The darkness presses in, thick and suffocating. My chest rises and falls too quickly, the air too sharp in my lungs. I need to get out. Now.

I turn for the door, gripping the frame to steady myself. But then—another vibration.

My phone.

The screen lights up in my hand.

Unknown Number.

This time, I don't hesitate. I open the message.

"Leaving already?"

My stomach twists violently. No. No, no, no.

I whip around again, expecting—something. A figure, a shadow, someone watching me.

But it's just me. Alone.

Or maybe not.

My fingers shake as I type out a response, my first mistake of the night.

Who are you?

Three dots appear.

I swallow hard, pulse hammering as I watch them blink in and out, in and out. Then—

"Come find out."

A sharp knock slams against my door.

My body seizes, every muscle locking up. My phone nearly slips from my grip. No one should be here. No one should know where I live.

The knock comes again—louder this time.

I take a slow step forward, the weight of my own movement unbearable.

Another message flashes across my screen.

"Time's up."

The doorknob turns.

The doorknob turns—slow, deliberate.

I can't move.

I can't breathe.

A sharp click sounds as the lock gives way, the door shifting open an inch—then two.

A sliver of darkness beyond.

I clutch my phone in one hand, my pulse a chaotic drumbeat. Run. Do something.

Then—a voice.

Low. Smooth. Female.

"I was hoping you'd open it yourself."

My stomach knots violently.

The door eases open fully, revealing the figure standing on the threshold.

Tall. Cloaked in black. Sharp in a way that cuts.

My breath shudders out, but I can't step back. Something about her holds me in place.

She tilts her head, watching me with an unreadable expression. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

The absurdity of the question slams against the terror in my chest. My voice barely scrapes out—hoarse, shaken.

"Who the hell are you?"

She smiles—slow, calculated.

"You already know."

I don't. I do.

A memory stirs at the edges of my mind, fragmented and unclear. Something I've forgotten.

Her gaze drops to my phone, still glowing in my grip. A quiet hum of amusement.

"You respond too easily." She steps forward, closing the space between us, and I realize too late—I should have run.

But I don't.

I can't.

Because now, standing this close, I see it—the familiarity.

And that's almost worse than the fear.