The knocks didn't come again.They just hung there in the air, like a presence that had already slipped under the door and into the apartment.
Emily's mouth went dry. "What do we do?" she whispered.
James didn't move at first. His eyes were locked on the door, his whole body tense, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Then, slowly, he stepped toward it.
"Don't," Emily hissed.
He looked back at her, his voice low and steady. "If it's her, avoiding it won't make her go away."
The rain outside had turned into a heavy curtain of water, pounding against the windows. Emily's heart raced as James reached for the handle. She didn't know if she was more afraid of the woman outside—or the way James seemed… different. Colder.
The door opened.
A woman stood there, drenched from the storm. Her hair was plastered to her face, mascara streaked down her cheeks, but her eyes… her eyes were sharp, calculating, alive. She smiled faintly.
"Hello, James."
Emily's stomach clenched. This was Claire. She knew it without him saying a word.
James's tone was tight. "You shouldn't be here."
Claire tilted her head. "And yet… here I am. You've been ignoring my messages."
Emily stepped closer. "Why are you sending me photographs of my boyfriend?"
Claire looked at her then, and the smile deepened, but it wasn't warm. "Because you need to understand the kind of man you're living with."
James's hand shot out, gripping the edge of the door. "That's enough."
Claire's eyes sparkled with something like amusement. "Oh, James… you still think you can control the story." She glanced at Emily again. "Tell me—has he told you about the warehouse?"
Emily froze. "What warehouse?"
James's voice was sharp now. "Don't."
But Claire kept going. "The one on Carson Street. Where he kept—"
"Enough!" James's shout made Emily flinch.
Claire didn't look afraid. She looked… satisfied. "See? He's still hiding things. You can pretend it's for your safety, Emily, but the truth will come out eventually."
The tension was a living thing now, crowding the hallway. Emily's mind was spinning, her breath shallow.
"Leave," James ordered. "Now."
Claire took a step back into the rain, but not before leaning in close enough for Emily to smell the sharp scent of wet asphalt on her clothes. "Be careful who you trust," she whispered.
Then she was gone, swallowed by the storm.
James shut the door and locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place felt final, but Emily's pulse refused to slow.
"What warehouse?" she demanded.
James didn't answer immediately. He rubbed his face with both hands, pacing. "It's not what she makes it sound like."
"That's not an answer!" Emily snapped. "Who is she to you? Why does she have pictures of you? Why is she warning me?"
"She's dangerous," James said finally, his voice tight with frustration. "She wants to pull you into something that has nothing to do with you."
Emily's voice shook. "If it has nothing to do with me, then why is she at my door?"
For a long moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the glass.
James stopped pacing. He looked at her, and there was something in his eyes—a heaviness, like he was standing on the edge of a decision that would change everything.
"There's something you need to see," he said.
He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a small metal lockbox. It was dented, scratched, and heavier than it looked. He set it on the kitchen table, pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked it.
Inside were photographs, documents, and a black notebook.
Emily's hands shook as she picked up one of the photos. It was of James, younger, standing beside a rusted metal door. The number 14 was painted on it in faded red. She recognized it from the background of the photo Claire had given her.
"That's the warehouse," James said quietly.
"What's inside?" Emily asked.
His jaw tightened. "Things I wish I could forget."
Before she could ask more, there was movement outside the window—a shadow slipping past, too fast to be just the rain.
James was already moving, grabbing the box and shoving it into the bedroom. "Lights off," he ordered.
Emily's chest tightened as the apartment fell into darkness. She stood by the wall, straining to hear over the storm.
Then—another knock.
But this time, it came from the back door.