Prologue #2
I toss my hoodie onto the arm of the couch, partly covering the spot Calypso’s shredded with her claws, then kick off my boots and shrug my bag from my shoulders, dropping it beside the coffee table with a soft thud.
Calypso trails me as I make my way down the narrow hallway, meowing like I’ve been gone for days instead of hours, and when I don’t scoop her up, her protests only get louder.
“You’re so needy,” I chuckle, bending down to stroke her back. She presses into my hand as I reach for my bedroom door, twisting the knob and nudging it open with my shoulder.
I trail my fingers along the wall until they find the switch.
A soft click, and warm light spills across the room, revealing its usual chaos—blankets tangled halfway off the bed, laundry overflowing from the hamper, and a pink glittery dildo perched unapologetically atop a stack of smutty romance books on the nightstand.
Calypso glides in ahead of me, her tail swaying with lazy confidence as she hops onto the bed without hesitation. She makes a beeline for my pillow, circles twice, then flops down like royalty returning to her throne. The purring starts almost instantly.
“Of course,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “I sleep there, you know.”
She doesn’t care. She never does.
But before I can move to shoo her off, a sudden chill brushes across my bare shoulders—cool, sharp, unexpected. I freeze, a ripple of unease crawling down my spine. My eyes snap to the window across the room.
The dark purple curtains sway gently in the breeze, shifting in slow, uneven waves that stir the quiet room. They brush against the wall, and the blinds behind them tap lowly against the pane, just enough to catch my attention. Just enough to make my stomach tighten.
The window’s open.
But I don’t remember leaving it open.
Goosebumps ripple down my arms as I cross the room, each step heavier than it should be. My fingers brush the curtain’s edge, and I ease it aside, leaning close to peer out. I duck my head out and glance around.
The balcony is empty. Just my old lawn chair, its fabric so frayed and torn it’s practically begging me to finally throw it away.
A chipped coffee cup—which I forgot to bring inside—sits abandoned on the concrete, filled to the rim with old coffee and rainwater from the storm this afternoon.
The thin, rust-speckled railing lines the edge of the narrow platform, offering absolutely zero comfort or sense of safety.
The fire escape ladder is pulled up and secured in place, waiting to be lowered when needed.
I scan the street below next. A few cars are parked along the curb, their windshields reflecting faint streaks of yellow from the nearest streetlamp. Around the corner, headlights glow in the distance, but there’s no movement. No figures standing in the shadows. Nothing looks out of place.
But something feels out of place.
There’s a weight in my chest I can’t quite name—a slow-building pressure, like someone is pressing their palm against my sternum from the inside out.
My hands grip the windowsill as I linger longer than I need to.
I can very clearly see that no one is lurking on my damn balcony, but still, the feeling doesn’t dissipate.
I pull back inside and shove the window closed harder than I mean to. The loud clack of the glass and frame slamming together makes me jump—and it startles Calypso too. She hisses from the bed, bolting upright with a flick of her tail, clearly offended.
“Sorry, baby,” I murmur, securing the window lock with a sharp click. My fingers linger on the latch for a second longer than necessary before I finally draw the curtains shut, the fabric falling still against the wall.
Maybe I did leave it open. Maybe I was in too much of a rush this morning and forgot. Or perhaps it’s just my nerves being… my nerves.
I stand there momentarily, staring at the closed curtains, my hand still resting on the fabric like I’m waiting for something else to happen. But the apartment is still again, and Calypso has already returned to her loaf position on my pillow, her tail flicking lazily as she settles.
Shaking the feeling off, I run a hand down my face, dragging the lingering tension with it. “It’s nothing,” I whisper to myself. “You’re just tired.”
And I am. My entire body feels like it’s moving on a delay—like I’m wading through mud, and every step is just a second too slow. My thoughts are hazy, and I can’t tell if I’m just exhausted or if the unease from earlier is still hanging on, pressing down behind my eyes. Probably both.
Definitely both.
All I want to do is rip off my tank top and leggings, face-plant into my bed, and disappear into sleep. But as if on cue, my stomach lets out a loud, miserable growl, echoing through the quiet apartment.
So much for collapsing into bed.
I glance over at Calypso, still curled on my pillow like she’s the one who paid rent this month. “You hungry, baby?” I ask, my voice softer now. She lifts her head, stretches out her chunky little body with a satisfied groan, then hops down from the bed in one graceful leap.
She trots ahead, tail flicking as if to say, finally, and I follow her out into the dim hallway.
We make our way into the kitchen, and I pick up her food bowl from the floor before flipping the overhead light on.
The soft glow floods the space, illuminating my overflowing sink, a counter cluttered with several boxes of food—their contents long gone—unopened mail, and a half-drunk coffee I never finished this morning.
I sigh, setting Calypso’s bowl on the counter before moving to the pantry.
I scan the shelves, eyes skimming past cans of soup, a half-eaten, forgotten bag of stale Great Value mini marshmallows, two boxes of Kraft Mac and Cheese, and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.
I’ve already had mac and cheese three times this week, and I’m out of frozen dinners, so cereal will have to do.
It’s the only thing that sounds remotely appetizing tonight.
I grab the cereal and a can of chicken-flavored Friskies off the bottom shelf for Calypso and set both on the counter. She immediately starts meowing like she hasn’t eaten in a week, her little paws kneading at my leg as I pop the lid off the can.
“Chill, Caly,” I mumble, wrinkling my nose at the smell. “It’s coming.”
I dump the wet food into her bowl, the slop hitting the dish with a wet plop that makes me grimace. She doesn’t wait. As soon as I set it down by her water dish, she dives in with all the grace of a raccoon in a trash can. I can’t help but laugh softly as she inhales her food.
Another loud, angry growl rips through my stomach, cutting through the quiet and reminding me (loud and clear) that I still haven’t eaten. I sigh, turn away from Calypso, and curse under my breath.
Every single bowl I fucking own is piled in the basin, teetering dangerously like a Jenga tower of bad decisions and laziness.
I stare at it for a second, weighing my options. I could do the responsible thing and finally wash all of them… or I could do the bare minimum and pretend I’ll handle the rest tomorrow.
Bare minimum wins in the end. Shocker.
I grab the least offensive-looking bowl and a spoon from the mountain of ceramic shame, then snatch my Scrub Daddy (that has seen better days) and the bottle of Honey Berry Hula-scented Gain dish soap from the corner of the sink.
The scent is the only cheerful thing about this situation.
I scrub until the dried-on cereal from a few days ago finally surrenders and rinse the bowl clean, followed by the spoon.
Once satisfied, I set them down next to the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was waiting on the counter, then tear the last few sheets off the paper towel roll.
I dry everything halfheartedly (bowl, spoon, and hands) before balling the damp towel and tossing it toward the overflowing trash can like I’m shooting a free throw.
It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor, rolling a few feet away from the can. Of course it does.
I shrug. Whatever. I’ll take the trash out in the morning. Maybe. Probably not. We’ll see.
I pour a generous amount of cereal into the bowl, and the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar immediately triggers another rumble in my gut. I pop a few pieces into my mouth straight from the bowl, then pivot toward the fridge to grab the milk.
Just as I’m reaching for the handle, my phone rings.
I pause, letting the fridge door fall shut with a soft thud; the condiments in the door rattle when it closes.
I slide my phone out of my back pocket and glance at the screen.
Unknown Caller flashes on the screen. I hesitate for a second, thumb hovering over the red button, but curiosity gets the better of me.
I press the green one instead, then balance my phone between my ear and shoulder as I reopen the fridge to get the milk.
“Hello?” I say, drawing the word out slightly, already bracing for a spam call—or worse, someone asking about my car’s extended warranty.
Static.
I set the milk down on the counter, confused by the silence, and pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. The call’s still connected, the seconds ticking upward. I press the phone back to my ear, my brows furrowing.
“Hello?” I repeat sharply, impatience bleeding into my voice.
Still nothing. Just silence—an uncomfortable, almost intentional kind.
I wait another beat, tension creeping into my shoulders. “Who is this?” I ask, speaking louder this time, already annoyed at myself for bothering to engage. I start to lower the phone from my ear, ready to end the call and move on, when I hear it.
Heavy breathing, slow and deliberate, fills the silence.
My skin prickles, goosebumps forming on my arms as unease twists through my gut. Anger quickly overtakes the initial flash of anxiety.
“Piss off, whoever this is. This isn’t funny,” I snap, irritation slicing my words.