Chapter 7

The first thought hits me before I even open my door. Don’t make eye contact. Just confirm location and move on. It’s not my voice. I freeze in my hallway, keys biting into my palm. My apartment building hums its usual tired soundtrack—someone’s TV, pipes clanking, faint traffic—but the thought is razor‑clean, clinical. Male. Focused. Target in 2B. Alone. Elevated stress indicators. My heart lurches into a sprint. 2B is me. I force my fingers to move, lock turning with a too‑loud...