Chapter Five - Seraphina
The week drags, every day thick with a tension I can’t name. My laptop starts acting up first. Emails disappear or send themselves twice; attachments blink out of drafts, then reappear hours later. I watch the cursor jump across the screen.
Some days I blame a software update, others I wonder if I’m just exhausted. Logic never fully calms the unease. The feeling settles in my chest, low and cold.
I double-check my front door each morning, keys jingling as I tug on the lock. Coming home Tuesday, my stomach drops. The door sits open by an inch, not wide enough for a neighbor to notice but enough for me to know I locked it that morning.
My hand shakes when I push it open. Every light is exactly as I left it, shoes lined up in a row, groceries still on the counter. I check closets, under the bed, the bathroom. No one waits for me in the dark, no sign that anything’s been taken or moved.
I stand in the middle of the apartment, heart hammering, telling myself it’s nothing. Maybe I missed the latch. Maybe my nerves have twisted everything out of shape. Still, I sleep with the bedroom door locked. When I close my eyes, I hear the creak of old hinges over and over, all night long.
On the street, I start noticing a car. Black, glossy, expensive.
It shows up more than once, parked along the curb near the crosswalk, always angled toward my building.
The windows reflect city lights: faceless, impenetrable.
Sometimes it sits right across from my apartment; other times, it lurks two blocks down, just close enough to see.
I snap a photo on my phone, heart skipping, and send it to Izzy.
She calls me five minutes later, voice warm with laughter. “Babe, you need to get laid. That’s not the Mafia; it’s probably just some Uber driver on break.”
I try to laugh. It sounds brittle, not quite right. “Iz, I know when I’m being watched. This isn’t in my head.”
She calls me a few choice words. “You watch too much true crime. Maybe you need a night out, get the anxiety out of your system.”
I say nothing, but that night, I wedge a chair beneath the door handle. I start walking the longer route home, eyes flicking over my shoulder, every footstep behind me a jolt of adrenaline. The black car appears again the next night. Instinct says it’s not an accident.
The bar Izzy picks is loud, all neon and spilled drinks. We claim a sticky table, sliding into a booth that vibrates with bass. She’s dressed to kill, hair blown out, eyes lined in something glittery. I feel like a ghost beside her: tired, strung out, skin prickling every time the door opens.
Izzy orders for both of us. “You’re not going home sober tonight,” she tells me, eyes dancing. I let the vodka burn a path down my throat, but it doesn’t melt the chill in my gut.
After our third round, a man approaches.
He’s tall, with hair just long enough to curl at his collar, and a dimple that deepens when he smiles.
His shirt fits a little too well, rolled sleeves revealing forearms etched with faint tattoos.
He asks if he can join us. Izzy gives me a look—see, I told you—and nods.
He’s charming in a practiced way, conversation smooth, but not fake. He talks to both of us, but it’s clear his interest leans my way. Izzy elbows me under the table.
“Sera’s been working too hard,” she announces. “She needs to have some fun. She’s practically a nun at this point.”
I glare at her, but the man just laughs. “I’m harmless, I promise.” His eyes linger, questioning, never aggressive. I let myself talk back: sarcasm, dry wit, the parts of me that haven’t rusted over yet. He handles it with a smile.
After a while, Izzy leans in, whispering hot against my ear. “You need this. Just for once, let yourself live a little. Don’t die a virgin, babe.”
The word stings, mostly because it’s true. I’ve never cared much about it, never found anyone I trusted enough, never wanted the mess. Still, the drinks are warm in my veins, the man is persistent but never pushy, and Izzy’s laughter is a dare I can’t refuse.
He asks if I want to get some air. I hesitate, glancing at Izzy. She rolls her eyes. “Go. I’ll be here. If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll call the police and tell them you were abducted by a male model.”
I slide out of the booth, nerves tripping over themselves. He waits for me at the door, polite, hands in his pockets. I don’t touch him. Outside, the city feels changed: lights soft, night air sticky with summer. He suggests a walk, and I let him lead.
We talk about nothing, about the city, the bar, the music.
He never tries to move closer than he should.
Still, I can feel the weight of his eyes, a question always on the tip of his tongue.
When we stop beneath a streetlight, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I flinch before I can help it. He pulls back, apology written across his face.
“Sorry. Too much?”
I force a smile. “No, it’s fine. I just… I’m not used to this.”
He laughs, low and genuine. “You don’t go out with guys much?”
I shake my head, honesty slipping out against my better judgment. “Not really. Never found the appeal, honestly. I like things I can control.”
His smile sharpens. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right kind of trouble.”
That makes me laugh, really laugh, for the first time in days. The sound feels strange, unfamiliar.
He asks if I want to go back to his place or if I’d rather take things slow. I surprise myself by saying yes, voice steadier than I feel. Maybe it’s the vodka, maybe it’s Izzy’s dare, maybe it’s just exhaustion, but I don’t want to be alone tonight.
I text Izzy before I go, just in case: Going with him. If you don’t hear from me by morning, I’ve been murdered. Or I got lucky.
She sends back a string of laughing emojis and a warning not to get kidnapped. I take a breath, step into the dark, and let myself follow.
The ride to the hotel is a blur, city lights flickering past the window in dizzy, broken patterns. The man—Tom, he said his name was—makes small talk, asking about my job, my favorite music, even my best friend’s name.
I answer out of habit, mouth running on autopilot, nerves coiling tighter with every block we pass. Each laugh feels too loud, each question too practiced. I tell myself it’s just nerves. I tell myself I want this, something normal, something easy.
The hotel is too nice for a casual night out. Lobby marble gleams, elevators hush with expensive efficiency. He flashes a credit card, the clerk barely looking up, and we take the lift in silence.
When the doors slide open, the hallway stretches long and empty. Tom leads the way, keycard in hand, and I trail after, eyes fixed on the patterned carpet.
Inside the room, the air is cold, the scent of disinfectant sharp and clean.
I try to ignore the prickle running down my back.
He offers me a drink from the minibar. I refuse, claiming I’m already tipsy.
He laughs, settling onto the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone, jacket tossed carelessly on the chair.
My nerves are shot. “I need the bathroom,” I murmur, already moving toward the door. He waves me off, distracted.
I lock the door behind me, hands braced on the sink.
My reflection looks pale, eyes wide. I splash cold water over my face, breathing in sharp gasps, trying to steady myself.
The tiles press cold against my palms. I count to ten.
Something feels wrong—off-kilter, rehearsed, like a scene I’ve walked into by mistake.
When I finally step out, the room is empty. Tom’s jacket still sits draped across the chair, his phone buzzing softly on the table. The bed is untouched. The silence roars in my ears.
I call out, voice barely a whisper, “Tom?” No answer. The bathroom door hangs open behind me, the hallway door still closed. I check the locks. Everything’s in place.
A chill seeps in, prickling the hairs on my arms. I wait a minute, then five. I check the bathroom again, look beneath the bed, force myself to peer behind the heavy blackout curtains. Nothing. He’s simply gone. Disappeared, as if he’d never been here at all.
I grab my phone, hands shaking. My mind races with explanations. Maybe he got a call. Maybe an emergency. Maybe he realized he didn’t want this either. I try to laugh it off, but it sticks in my throat. I start to type a message to Izzy: You will not believe this!
Then my phone buzzes, screen flashing an unknown number.
Instinct tells me to ignore it. Instead, I answer.
“Miss Hale.” The voice is low, clipped, male. No greeting, no question. I freeze, suddenly colder than the room. “I’m with the FBI. Your company works with the Sharov Corporation, doesn’t it?”
A dozen thoughts race through my mind, none of them coherent. “What? Who—”
“Listen carefully.” His tone sharpens. “You’ve been reviewing their accounts. Have you noticed anything unusual? Anything at all?”
Panic claws at my chest. I search for words. “I handle a lot of files. I’m not—” The silence on the line grows heavy, as if he’s waiting for me to trip myself up.
My mind flashes to the glitches, the open door, the emails gone wrong. I want to ask how he got my number, how he knows who I am, but fear closes my throat.
He continues: “Miss Hale, this is serious. We know Sharov’s people have eyes everywhere. If you’ve seen anything, if you have access to documentation, you need to cooperate. Think carefully. You could be rewarded for your help.”
My hand tightens around the phone. My first instinct is to lie, to deny everything, but I hesitate. The pause stretches. My silence must be answer enough.
“Meet me in two days,” he says. “I’ll text you the location. Bring anything you have; screenshots, files, anything unusual. We’ll keep you safe. Don’t mention this call to anyone. Not your company. Not your friends. Understand?”
My mouth is dry, tongue thick. “What if I don’t—?”
“Miss Hale, I’m not asking.” The tone is final, ice-cold. “I’m giving you an opportunity. Don’t waste it.”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone, heart pounding, fingers numb. The room feels smaller, the walls too close.
Tom’s jacket and phone still rest on the chair, an unfinished scene I can’t read. I look around again, as if expecting him to materialize, to explain any of this. The silence is absolute.
Every sense is jangling, fear and adrenaline mixing until I’m not sure if I want to run or scream.
I send a text to Izzy: Something happened. I’ll explain later. I’m okay. just needed air.
I don’t trust myself to say more.
I leave the hotel room, glancing back once, expecting to see a shadow at my heels. The elevator ride down is endless. Each floor that ticks by, the weight in my chest grows heavier.
On the sidewalk, I pull my coat tight, pulse thrumming in my ears. I keep walking, quick steps echoing, unable to shake the feeling that eyes track my every move. The city is too bright, too loud, every face a threat.
When I finally reach my building, I pause before going inside, double-checking every window and street corner. My nerves buzz with dread. I don’t sleep, lying awake until dawn, the phone clutched in my hand.
In the thin gray light of morning, I scroll back to the call log, reading the number again and again. I try to convince myself it was a prank or a mistake, but the words ring too true. My world is suddenly smaller, more dangerous, twisted into knots I can’t untangle.
I should let it go. I should bury the files, forget the name Sharov, act like nothing happened. My curiosity, my stubbornness, refuses to die. There’s a game in motion now, and I’m trapped in the center.
I wish I could pretend otherwise.