The acrid smell of burning paper filled Charlotte's nostrils before she saw the smoke curling from the wastebasket beside her desk. Orange embers ate through the crumpled draft of her Harvard essay, the words she'd labored over for weeks disappearing into ash. She lunged forward, batting at the flames with her textbook, her heart hammering. The fire hissed and died, leaving only a charred mess and the bitter taste of panic in her throat. She'd fallen asleep at her desk again, the lamp too close to the paper. Her body felt anchored to the chair by a leaden exhaustion. The cursor on her screen blinked against the thousands of words she still owed. She thought of her sister, the sharp scent of supermarket disinfectant that clung to her skin after double shifts, and the heavy thud of her work boots dropping by the door every midnight. A sharp crack from downstairs made her freeze. Charlotte's breath stopped as she reached the kitchen doorway. The refrigerator stood wide open, humming over spilled contents pooling across the tile. Every drawer had been ripped from its track, their contents flung across the floor like trash. The pantry was a graveyard of torn cardboard and spilled grains that crunched under her slippers. Her hand shook as she reached for her phone. She punched in the numbers with trembling fingers. The line went dead—not a click, not a hello, just cold silence. Then she heard it—the electronic warble of the bird ringtone, an artificial chirping tearing through the stairwell from upstairs. Her sister's phone. Her lungs burned as she climbed the stairs, each breath a dry, copper-tasting rasp. Charlotte knelt by the bed, reaching for Liz's hand. "Liz, please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Wake up. Someone's been in the kitchen." "Charlotte, you're already seventeen. You know you can handle that yourself." Liz closed her eyes again, falling back to sleep. The words hit Charlotte like a physical blow. Her hand went slack, fingers slipping from Liz's grip. The distance between them felt suddenly insurmountable. Charlotte backed out of the room. She would handle it herself. The stairs creaked as she descended, anger burning through the fear. She grabbed her phone again, thumb hovering over 911. What would she even say? A sound from the back of the house made her freeze—a footfall from the direction of the laundry room. Whoever had done this was still here. She should run. Should scream. But anger burned in her chest, hot and reckless, and she was so tired of being afraid, of being alone, of handling everything by herself. Charlotte grabbed a knife from the counter and moved toward the laundry room. The door stood ajar. Her hand found the switch. The bulb flickered to life, revealing a man standing among scattered laundry baskets. Maybe thirty, dressed in dark clothes, his face partially obscured by a hood. But what froze Charlotte wasn't his appearance—it was the look in his eyes when they locked onto hers. Not surprise. Recognition. "You're not Liz," he said, confused. Charlotte's grip tightened on the knife. "Get out of my house." He took a step toward her, his hand moving to his pocket. Metal glinted there. "You weren't supposed to be awake. It was just supposed to be her. She saw something she shouldn't have. At work. But now you're here and you've seen my face and—" "I don't know what you're talking about." Charlotte's voice came out steadier than she felt. "Just leave. Please." Even as she said it, she knew it was useless. His hand emerged from his pocket holding something that made her stomach drop. Not a gun. A syringe. "I can't," he said simply. "I'm sorry." He moved fast. The knife clattered from her hand as he grabbed her wrist, his grip iron-strong. Charlotte screamed, but his other hand was already covering her mouth, pushing her back against the washing machine. She thrashed, her elbow connecting with his ribs, her feet kicking out wildly. "Liz!" The scream came out muffled against his palm. "LIZ!" But upstairs, the house remained silent. Charlotte bit down hard on his hand, tasting blood. He cursed, yanking back, and she lunged for the door. Her fingers brushed the frame before he caught her hair, wrenching her backward. Pain exploded across her scalp. Then he was on her again, his weight pressing her down. "I'm sorry," he kept saying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The needle pierced her neck—a sharp, burning sting. She felt something cold spreading through her veins like ice water. Her limbs went heavy, her vision tunneling. The laundry room tilted sideways. The last thing she saw was the man's face above her, twisted with something that might have been genuine regret. Then nothing.
