Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Kira
The city feels almost kind tonight. Warm for October, the kind of afternoon sunlight that lingers between the buildings, soft and gold, touching everything it can’t quite warm.
For once, I don’t take the car. It’s late, but the streets are bright enough—neon signs, open windows, snippets of laughter from bars spilling into the air.
My shoes ache from twelve hours on my feet, but walking feels better than sitting in traffic and pretending the silence beside me isn’t waiting to swallow me whole.
Lilly walks next to me, the rhythm of her steps light and careless.
She always moves like the world owes her a favor and I love that for her.
“You know, most people celebrate the end of a shift by doing something fun,” she says, sipping her coffee.
“A bad decision, a drink that turns into a blackout.”
I smirk. “You’re describing your last Friday, not mine.”
“That’s the point,” she says, bumping my shoulder. “You need one.”
“I had a patient flatline in front of me two hours ago,” I remind her. “I think I’ll skip the blackout.”
She rolls her eyes. “God, you’re such a nun sometimes.”
I laugh under my breath, not because it’s funny but because it’s true. My life revolves around scrubs, double shifts, and bills that never stop multiplying. I can count my reckless decisions on one hand, and all of them involve trusting my brother.
Lilly kicks a pebble down the street. “You ever think about taking a day off?”
“Days off are expensive.”
“So are ulcers,” she mutters. “Come on, Kira. You’re twenty-seven. You should at least have a hobby that doesn’t involve vital signs.”
“I like reading,” I say defensively.
“You like medical journals.”
“And old movies.”
“On your couch. Alone.”
I sigh. “You’re relentless.”
“It’s a skill.” She nudges me again. “What about Lucas? Still MIA?”
A familiar pinch tightens in my chest at the thought of my brother. “Yeah. A week now.”
“Did you call him?”
“Twice. Straight to voicemail.”
She shrugs. “He’ll show up. He always does when he needs your help.”
That’s what I keep telling myself. Lucas always reappears eventually—hungover, broke, full of promises that last about three days. I’ve learned not to panic until the calls start coming from numbers I don’t recognize.
Still, something feels different this time. The air carries the same weight I feel before a bad shift, like the exact moment before a code is called, when everyone just knows.
Lilly notices my silence. “Hey,” she says gently, “he’s fine. He probably just found some new gig.”
“Or some new trouble.”
“You worry too much.”
“I have reason to.”
She looks at me with that mix of sympathy and frustration she’s perfected. “You can’t keep doing this, Kira. You can’t live your life cleaning up after him. He’s not your patient.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And you’re not his mother. He’s not your responsibility.”
The words sting more than I want to admit. I hate that she’s right. I hate that I still flinch every time someone reminds me that I’m not enough to fix him.
We walk in silence for a while. Streetlights flash gold across the pavement. The city hums with its usual chaos of horns and the faint echo of music from somewhere above us. It’s the kind of noise that makes you feel less alone, even when you are.
When we reach my building, Lilly stops at the corner. “Are you sure you’re good?”
“Yeah.” I try to smile. “Just tired.”
“Text me if you get bored and want me to come over with ice cream and wine.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She studies me a second longer, as if she wants to say more but knows I won’t listen. Then she waves and walks off, her hair catching the streetlight like copper. I watch her go until she disappears into the crowd.
The air feels colder once she’s gone.
Inside my building, the stairwell smells like paint and old cigarettes.
The landlord swore he’d fix the lighting months ago, but the bulbs still flicker like a dying heartbeat.
I climb the steps, my legs protesting with every move.
The building is quiet except for the hum of someone’s TV through a thin wall and the faint drip of water from a leaky pipe.
By the time I reach my door, I’m half-asleep on my feet. I fish out my keys, push the door open, and step inside.
The apartment greets me with its usual silence. A finished cup of coffee sits on the counter, a pile of medical forms on the table. I drop my bag and kick off my shoes.
It’s a small apartment, a one-bedroom carved out of an old brownstone, patched together with secondhand furniture and prayers. The walls are thin enough to hear the neighbors argue, but it’s the first place that’s ever felt like home.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the chair.
The air inside is warm and stale. I peel off my blouse next, the cheap polyester clinging to my skin.
My bra strap digs into my shoulder, the elastic itching where the fabric’s frayed.
I make a mental note to buy a new one, then immediately remind myself that rent comes first.
I undo the top button of my jeans while crossing the room, the dim light from the street slipping through the blinds. It’s enough to find my way through the dark.
The floor creaks as I move toward the kitchen, each step whispering back at me. The sound makes me pause for no reason I can explain. I’ve always hated coming home to silence; it makes every small noise feel amplified, like the apartment is listening.
I flip through the mail on the counter—bills, advertisements, a letter for Lucas.
My name scratched next to his in someone else’s handwriting.
I stare at it longer than I should before setting it aside.
The truth is, I haven’t told the landlord he doesn’t live here anymore.
I’m not ready to admit that most nights, it’s just me and the echo of someone who should’ve come back by now.
The fridge hums. I open it, find a half-empty carton of milk and a leftover sandwich that’s turned the color of regret.
I close the door. My reflection catches in the window—faint, blurred, almost unfamiliar.
God, I look tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes though, and I wonder if I should text Lilly and agree to the glass of wine after all.
The clock above the sink reads 6:47. I should shower, but the thought of peeling off the rest of my clothes in the cold bathroom feels impossible. I light a candle instead. Vanilla, almost sweet enough to cover the antiseptic smell that follows me home from work.
Something knocks faintly against the window. Probably the wind, but it makes me look up. The curtains shift a little. I cross the room and check the latch. Closed. Everything looks normal.
Still, a small chill runs down my spine. I know it’s exhaustion and I’ve seen way too many people turn paranoid after continuous ER nights. But still… something feels off.
The candle sputters.
I exhale through my nose, force myself to move and I see that the bedroom door is cracked open. The blinds let in a faint strip of light from the street—thin and gold, cutting through the dark like a scar. My bed’s already made, the sheet smooth, the sweatshirt folded neatly at the foot.
Lucas used to sleep there sometimes, when he’d show up too drunk to find his own bed. I never said no, even when he stumbled in at 3 a.m. smelling like whiskey and trouble. Some part of me always thought if I kept a place for him, he’d find his way back to it.
The city outside murmurs—a siren far away, laughter closer, a dog barking in the alley. It’s ordinary. Comforting, even.
I pull my hair free from its ponytail and let it fall over my shoulders and I stand, half-undressed, and glance toward the hallway. For a moment, I think I hear something like a quiet shift of fabric, a slow breath that isn’t mine. The sound is so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.
I move toward the doorway, every sense on edge. “Lucas?” I call softly.
Silence.
My heartbeat drowns out the rest of the world. I take another step.
Something about the darkness feels different now, watchful. Like the second before a lightning strike. My mind flips through every rational explanation. The neighbors. The pipes. The wind. But none of them explain the smell.
It’s faint—cologne, maybe. Expensive. Nothing like Lucas’s cheap spray or the sterilized scent of the hospital. This is darker and way more subtle.
I pause halfway between the bedroom and the living room. The candlelight spills just enough to show the edge of the armchair by the window. The shadow there looks deeper than it should.
My pulse stumbles. I tell myself to move, to grab my phone, to do something, but my body won’t listen. Another sound—a soft exhale, almost a sigh.
There’s someone here. There’s someone in my fucking living room!
Every muscle in my body locks. I can’t see him yet, but I can feel him and I am damn sure it’s a man. A chill crawls up the back of my neck.
No movement. No sound. Just my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.
I stand there for what feels like a full minute, my breath coming short and fast. The candle still flickers, steady and harmless.
Maybe it was the neighbors. Or the old building settling again.
Maybe the sound was mine—a creak of floorboard, a breath caught wrong.
Get a grip, Kira. You’ve been awake too long.
I’ve seen what sleep deprivation does to people—hallucinations, paranoia, the mind twisting shadows into faces. I’ve told patients the same thing a hundred times. So why does the apartment feel like it’s holding its breath?
I run a hand through my hair, force out a laugh that doesn’t sound real. “Jesus, maybe I need the blackout after all.”
The joke lands flat in the dark.
I sit on the couch, letting my body remember the fatigue instead of the fear and I unlock my bra, getting ready to go under the shower and wash this day away.
“I’d let you keep going,” a voice says smoothly, “but things might escalate in a direction I didn’t plan for.”
My body freezes before my brain catches up. The voice isn’t my brother’s.