"Order up!"
Steve's voice was the soundtrack to my life. I snagged the two avocado toast plates, I felt the warm ceramic against my palms. It felt almost soothing to my fingers.My feet were already hurting. Four more hours.
"Here you go, enjoy," I said, delivering the food to the couple who'd been glued to their phones. They grunted in unison. How Charming! I almost felt sorry for them.. Nothing lasts forever you know???
I did my rituals. The waiter's shuffle. Refilled the older woman's decaf—her name was Carol, and she always left two dollars. I cleared a mountain of dishes from the table of students who'd clearly never heard of a bus tub. The clatter of plates and the hiss of the espresso machine with Taylor Swift's "Cruel Summer" playing in the background were my rhythm section.
And in the back booth, my one weirdo for the day.
He'd come in about twenty minutes ago. Didn't look like a student. He looked too… solid. He sat in the corner, his black coffee going cold in front of him. He had no phone, no book. Just staring out the window. He wasn't brooding, exactly. More like he was… parked, waiting.
I can't really tell… Definitely my Wierdo of the day.
Whatever. Not my business. My business was the five-dollar tip I just made and the student loan statement waiting for me in my inbox.
I did a final sweep of my section. "Can I get anyone anything else?"
My gaze landed on the wierdo guy in the booth. Might as well be thorough. I walked over.
"Get you a warm-up on that?" I asked, my pen poised over my notepad.
He turned his head. His eyes were a cool, focused gray. He looked at me, for a second too long. It wasn't creepy, just… intense. Like he was memorizing my face. He might have passed off as a handsome fella, except for his brooding nature and the way his eyes followed me as I took orders.
"No," he said. His voice was unexpectedly low, it didn't match the cheerful indie pop piping through the speakers.
"Okay. Well, just wave me down if you need anything." I gave him my best Customer Service Smile, and turned to leave.
I felt his eyes on my back all the way to the counter.
Weird. But in a seven-hour shift, you get all kinds. I shrugged it off, clocked out fifteen minutes later, and pushed through the glass doors into the bland afternoon light.
My mind was already miles away from the coffee shop. I was mentally calculating how many shifts it would take to cover next semester's books. I walked to the bus stop, the guy in the booth was already fading into the background noise of a Tuesday. Just another strange customer in a long line of them.
The bus ride home was the same as always. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, my brain was stuck on a loop of textbook costs and tuition fees. I barely noticed the walk from the stop to my apartment building, my feet on autopilot.
It wasn't until I was fumbling at my door that the feeling hit me. I felt this cold, quiet wrongness.
The door was already slightly ajar.
My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. "Lena?" I called out,I heard my voice get drowned by the bass thump of my neighbors music.
"I reached into my bra for my spare key, Don't judge!, it's the safest pocket I have."
I pushed the door open slowly, clutching my keys tightly in my fist. The living room was… destroyed. Cushions were ripped open, stuffing everywhere. The bookshelf was toppled, my textbooks scattered. The TV was gone. But that wasn't the worst part. It wasn't just a robbery. It felt… violent. Personal. Drawers were yanked out and upended, their contents—my stuff, Lena's stuff—tossed and trampled….
So this was definitely not Lena's doing.
"Lena?" I yelled again, panic clawing its way up my throat. I stumbled through the wreckage to her room. Her bed was empty, Everything was flipped upside down.
Oh God!. Oh God!, oh God!.
My hands were shaking so bad I could barely grip my phone. I dialed 9-1-1, my thumb kept trembling while hovering over the call button. I backed toward the front door, needed to get out, to get help.
The door wouldn't move.
I yanked the handle. Clang! Clang! Clang! Nothing. I threw my shoulder against it, a stupid, desperate move. It was like pushing over a brick wall. It didn't just feel locked. I was still yanking my door handle more desperately now.. Clang! Clang! Clang!
A shadow fell over me from the hallway.
I spun around, I tried screaming at the top of my lungs, yet I could feal my voice trapped down lodged in my throat too stunned to scream for help.
It was HIM!!!!!. The guy from the coffee shop. He filled the broken doorway, his big frame blocking any chance of escape. Those storm-gray eyes weren't just intense now; they were flat. Deadly.
My phone clattered to the floor. This wasn't a coincidence. He'd been watching me. He did this.
My mind screamed one word, over and over: Serial killer!. Serial killer!. Serial killer!!!!!.
He took One step inside, his eyes were scanning the destruction without a flicker of surprise. It was almost like he'd expected it. Like he had maybe even caused it.
"Riley," he said, and my name in his mouth was the most dangerous sound I'd ever heard. How did he Know my name?
I scrambled backward, tripping over a fallen lamp, landing hard on my hands in the mess. "Stay away from me! Back Off!!
I'll scream"
I wasn't with my purse, I didn't have my rape whistle or my Pepper spray with me. I felt more exposed than I had ever been.
He just looked at me, a Murderer watching its cornered Victim. It was almost as if you he felt no anger, no frenzy. He had this calm, terrifying certainty.
"The police can't help you," he said, his voice had that same low rumble, cutting through my panic. "The people who did this aren't the kind the police can stop."
He took another step, and I saw it then, in his eyes. He wasn't just some random psycho. This was something else. Something worse.
"Stay Away from me!" I whispered, the words tearing out of me.
He was in front of me now, looming. He crouched down, bringing us eye to eye amidst the ruins of my life.
"I told you," he said, he had no emotion in his voice. "My name is Kael. And you're coming with me."
Was this how victims felt? The waiting,the not knowing when the knife would come out?
Every crime documentary I'd ever watched replayed in my head like a cruel highlight reel. He'd fight me, I'd resist. He'd pin me down, his hands would be over my mouth, drowning my screams until I just have exhausted myself from wrestling and screaming. Then he'd take advantage of me and end it.
This was it.
This was how I was going to die.
And honestly? It's not like I was anyone special. I wasn't some pretty blonde he'd be obsessed with. I was just… me. Ordinary. Forgettable, I wasn't special. It's not like I had friends who'd come looking, or the kind of face a killer would get obsessed with.
I know crime documentaries will tell you to stay calm at this point.
Breathe. Don't provoke him. Think smart.
But let me tell you something: the last thing on your mind when a serial killer's in your kitchen is playing along.