There was no turning back now.
The words hovered in the air, as present as the lamplight trembling across her walls. Elara remained still for a long, unmeasured moment, palms pressed flat against the metal case, breathing shallowly as if any sudden movement might alert someone—or something—listening.
Eventually, she pushed herself upright and crossed to her bedroom.
Her suitcase sat on the top shelf of her closet, untouched since her last failed attempt at a weekend getaway she could never afford. She dragged it down, the zipper rasping open in a way that felt too loud in the quiet apartment.
"Pack lightly," the courier had said.
She stared at her belongings—shelves of pigments, brushes arranged with meticulous care, clothes folded in uneven stacks, a scattering of old sketchbooks. What did one take when leaving behind a life without knowing where they'd land?
She grabbed a plain black sweater, jeans, undergarments. A small set of tools she always kept sharpened—her precision blades, delicate brushes, the kit that felt more intimate than jewelry. Toothbrush. Phone charger. Nothing sentimental; sentiment weighed too much.
As she folded everything into the suitcase, a flicker of movement brushed her peripheral vision. She glanced toward the window.
The curtain swayed.
Only slightly. But the window was closed.
Her breath hitched. She stepped closer, fingers hovering just short of the fabric. A thin draft kissed her skin—so faint it could have been imagined.
But she hadn't imagined the feeling crawling up her spine.
She crossed her arms tightly, peering through the narrow gap between the curtains. The street below was empty. Early enough that the bars were closed, too late for dog walkers. The only movement was a dim orange streetlamp flickering its last moments.
Still… she felt watched.
She let the curtain fall, the weight of her own pulse echoing in her ears.
Her suitcase was half full. She forced herself to return to it, shoving in the folded clothes a bit too roughly this time. She zipped the bag shut just as a faint creak sounded in the hallway outside her door.
She froze.
It wasn't the usual old-building groan. This was deliberate—like pressure on a floorboard.
A soft shadow passed under the doorframe. Then stillness.
Elara's throat tightened.
She stepped backward until her calves pressed against the bed, and she forced herself to breathe quietly through her nose. The sound outside didn't repeat. No footsteps moving away. No knock.
Just silence pooling against her door like it was listening.
She stayed there, unmoving, until her legs began to tremble from the tension. Only then did she reach, slowly, for her suitcase handle.
If someone was out there, watching to ensure she complied… then she couldn't afford to appear hesitant.
She dragged the suitcase behind her into the living room, wheels thumping over uneven floorboards. The shadows in the corners felt heavier now. The faint hum of her refrigerator sounded unnaturally loud.
She checked the time: 3:42 AM.
A little over an hour before she needed to leave.
She sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded, eyes on the clock—not because she needed to watch it, but because she didn't trust anything else in the room not to move if she looked away.
Her thoughts flickered to the courier's warning.
Prepare for it to be something else.
Whatever "something else" was, it had already begun.
It was in the creak of the hallway floor.
In the shift of the curtains.
In the silence that pressed too close.
She swallowed, chest tight.
This was no longer just a job.
This was an initiation.