The police arrived quickly, sirens cutting through the night like a sharp blade.
I stayed crouched behind the house, phone pressed to my ear, heart hammering.
"Sir, are you still on the line?"
the dispatcher asked.
"Yes,"
I said quietly, keeping my voice calm.
A moment later, a uniformed officer appeared at my hiding spot.
"Step out slowly. Show us it's your apartment."
Hands shaking slightly, I moved forward and unlocked the front door.
The officer followed, eyes scanning the area, then gestured for me to show proof.
I handed over the keys and my ID.
Jake Morrow.
The laminated card felt solid in my hand.
It looked as real as a dollar bill.
Behind me, the stranger—the one who had tried to break in—shouted, panic and rage in his voice.
But before he could reach me, officers shoved him into the waiting police car.
He struggled, kicking, yelling incoherently, but they held him tight.
"Do you want to report him?"
one of the officers asked, glancing at me.
"No,"
I said firmly.
"Just lock him in. Don't let him near me."
The officer raised an eyebrow.
"Do you have any idea why he broke in so furious, Mr. Morrow?"
I shook my head slowly, keeping my voice soft, controlled.
"No, sir… I never saw that guy. He called me 'his son,' but my father… died two years ago."
It was a lie.
Smooth, practiced.
Honest enough to sound like the truth.
Like an angel recounting a memory.
The officer nodded, scribbled something in his notebook, and handed me a small card.
"Just in case the judge lets him go,"
he said.
"Keep this on you."
I took it silently, tucking it into my hoodie pocket.
The police car drove away, the lights fading into the distance, leaving only the quiet hum of the city behind.
I turned slowly, giving the stranger the same cold, hateful glare he had once given me.
Hatred mirrored in hatred.
No words.
No emotion beyond the ice in my gaze.
Then I stepped back inside, closing the door behind me.
Safe.
For now.
But the memories lingered, coiling like shadows in the corners of the apartment.
And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself a small, controlled breath.
Jake Morrow was still here.
And Viktor—gone, for now.