For a moment after the knock, neither of them moved.
The apartment suddenly felt smaller, the quiet pressing in around them.
Zara was still sitting upright on the bed, the sheet loosely wrapped around her waist, her brows slightly drawn together.
Across from her, he hadn't taken his eyes off the bedroom door.
Another knock followed.
Not loud.
But deliberate.
Tap.
Tap.
Zara exhaled slowly through her nose.
"That's… strange."
He glanced at her.
"You sure you weren't expecting someone?"
She gave him a look.
"If I was, I wouldn't be this confused."
The silence returned, stretching between them.
Outside, the night remained still. No voices. No footsteps. No sound of someone moving away.
Just the door.
Waiting.
Zara rubbed her temple lightly.
"It's late," she murmured.
"Exactly," he replied.
Another pause.
Then he swung his legs off the bed.
"Well, whoever it is isn't leaving."
He reached down and grabbed his trousers from the floor, pulling them on quickly.
Zara watched him for a second before sliding off the bed as well.
"You don't have to play hero," she said.
"I'm not," he replied, fastening the button. "I just want to know who's knocking."
She stepped around him and picked up the shirt lying nearby.
Without much thought, she slipped it on.
The fabric hung loosely on her frame, the sleeves slightly too long.
He noticed.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Stealing my clothes again?"
"Focus," she said dryly.
Another knock.
This one a little firmer.
He glanced toward the living room.
"Alright, now I'm curious."
Zara walked past him toward the bedroom door, pushing it open.
The apartment beyond was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows.
They stepped out into the living room together.
The quiet out here felt heavier.
He lowered his voice slightly.
"Still think it's someone who knows you?"
Zara folded her arms loosely.
"I don't know."
"But?" he pressed.
She hesitated for a second.
"Anyone who actually knows me would call first."
He nodded slowly.
"Fair point."
They both looked toward the front door now.
Neither of them rushed forward.
There was something about the timing that made the whole thing feel… off.
Zara stopped a few steps away from the door.
"If it's someone drunk knocking on the wrong flat, I'm going back to bed," she muttered.
"Fair."
He moved slightly ahead of her.
"Stay here."
"I live here," she replied.
He huffed quietly but didn't argue.
Another second passed.
Then he reached for the handle.
He opened the door.
The night air drifted in immediately.
Outside, the compound was quiet. The row of flats across from hers sat still under the dim security light, and the open space between the buildings looked completely empty.
For a moment, both of them simply stared.
"No one?" Zara asked from behind him.
He stepped slightly forward, glancing around the compound.
"Doesn't look like it."
Zara moved closer.
"Then who—"
Her sentence stopped.
Something was sitting on the floor just beside the door.
A box.
Medium-sized.
Plain.
No label.
No note.
Just sitting there like it had been carefully placed and abandoned.
He frowned.
"Well… that's new."
Zara stared at it.
"Did you see anyone when you opened the door?"
"No."
He crouched slightly, studying it.
"You expecting packages at midnight now?"
She shook her head slowly.
"No."
He looked up at her.
"Only one way to find out."
He reached for the box.
And lifted it.
He set the box down on the edge of the kitchen counter, the soft thunk of cardboard against polished marble almost louder than he expected. It wasn't heavy, just enough to make him pause for a fraction of a second, but it had this strange, unspoken weight, the kind that makes the room feel smaller.
Zara stood back, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on him. "Open it," she said calmly. Her voice didn't tremble. It never did, but the faint tightening around her jaw betrayed the first flicker of unease.
He hesitated, glancing at her. "You really want me to?"
"Yes," she replied, steady. "Now."
With a slow inhale, he lifted the top flaps. The box wasn't perfectly sealed; the edges were frayed, the tape loose. The moment he peeled it back, a sharp, metallic tang hit the air. It was subtle at first, almost like copper on his tongue, but then it intensified, curling in the back of her throat, filling the kitchen like a fog.
Zara's stomach lurched. Her head tilted back instinctively, eyes narrowing, as a hot, prickling sensation ran up the back of her neck. The smell, fresh and metallic, triggered something inside her, a reaction she could feel in her bones. Her pulse spiked, heart racing like it was trying to outrun her.
He reached inside the box, and the faint rustle of fabric was almost deafening in the quiet room. He pulled out a cotton shirt, darkened almost entirely by what she now realized was fresh blood. It draped over his hands like it had weight, though it was just soaked fabric, still damp enough to glisten under the kitchen lights.
The sight made her head spin. Her vision flickered at the edges. A metallic taste rose in her mouth, and her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the sharp, overwhelming surge of adrenaline that coursed through her. Her muscles tensed; her lungs took shallow, fast breaths. She fought the dizziness, gritting her teeth, trying to hold herself upright.
She didn't wait. She didn't give him a chance to react. "Leave," she said, her voice firmer than she felt.
He froze. "Wait, what? Zara?"
"No!" she cut him off, moving past him toward the bedroom. "Now."
He blinked, clearly taken aback. "What's going on?"
She didn't answer. She moved with precision, like someone whose mind was operating on a singular command. Her fingers pulled off the shirt she had been wearing, the one of his she had donned earlier, and slipped into something from her closet. The fabric was soft, comforting; the act of dressing herself grounded her, steadying the thrum in her chest.
She grabbed his remaining clothes, the singlet he had left on the bed, his watch, his car keys, and thrust them toward him without meeting his eyes.
"Take it. Leave," she said.
His hands hesitated, brushing against hers as he tried to speak. "Zara, let me—"
"No," she interrupted again. "I said leave. Now."
He blinked, his surprise clear, but finally, slowly, he stepped back. "Are you okay?"
She didn't answer. She didn't look at him. She simply watched as he gathered his things and made his way to the door, the metallic click of the lock behind him louder than ever in the tense silence.
Once he was gone, she exhaled, a slow, shuddering release that left her trembling slightly. Her legs felt weak, but she forced herself toward the kitchen, moving on instinct. She opened a cabinet near the counter, pulling out a glass and a bottle of deep red wine. She poured it slowly, deliberately, letting the liquid swirl and catch the dim light. Her fingers tightened around the glass, grounding herself, steadying the rapid heartbeat still thrumming in her chest.
Sitting on the edge of the counter, the wine glass in hand, she let herself think, let herself feel the echo of the adrenaline, the lingering metallic scent, the sharp taste of panic. Her mind raced. A hundred questions circled, none with easy answers. How did it get here? Who sent it? Why? And why did it affect her so viscerally?
Outside, the city hummed quietly, lights blinking against the darkness, indifferent. Her phone buzzed, once, twice, then again. His name flashed across the screen. Call after call. Texts popped up: "Are you okay?" "Please answer me." "I need to know you're safe."
She ignored them all. For now, they couldn't reach her. Not tonight.
She sipped the wine slowly, letting it coat her throat. Her thoughts didn't slow. They multiplied, echoing and overlapping, a storm she couldn't yet name. She didn't sleep that night. Not really. She moved from the counter to the couch, curling herself slightly, glass resting on the coffee table, listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Her mind drifted, looping over the box, the blood, the sudden shift that had taken over her body, the sharp heat of protective instinct, and the unrelenting need to take control. Each thought, each pulse, built a rhythm that refused calm, refused rest.
Zara remained on the couch long after the wine glass had emptied. The bottle sat on the coffee table, nearly finished. At some point she had stopped trying to keep track of the time. Her eyes stayed open, fixed somewhere ahead of her, her mind moving through the same moment again and again, the box, the smell, the shirt in his hands.
She stood eventually and moved back to the kitchen. The glass was refilled. Then again. The wine bottle grew lighter each time she poured.
Her phone buzzed more than once on the counter.
She glanced at it only once, expecting to see his name again. The screen lit up with missed calls and messages she didn't open. The phone went back down on the counter.
The bottle emptied.
Morning came quietly. Light filtered into the apartment, dull and pale at first, then stronger. Zara was still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the empty bottle beside her.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time when she looked at the screen, it wasn't a call.
Therapy Appointment, 6:00 AM.
She stared at the notification for a moment. The reminder had been set long ago, part of a regular schedule she rarely missed.
Zara pushed herself off the counter.
She went to the bathroom and turned the shower on. The water ran hot over her shoulders as she washed quickly, efficiently. No lingering. No hesitation.
Afterward she stood in front of the closet for a brief moment before selecting an outfit.
Black trousers. A fitted cream blouse. A dark blazer.
She dressed carefully, smoothing the fabric, adjusting the sleeves and collar until everything sat exactly where it should. Her hair was pulled back neatly. Simple. Controlled.
The kitchen was silent when she returned. The empty wine bottle stayed where it was. She didn't touch it.
Her car was still at the gallery from the night before.
She opened her phone, ordered an Uber, and stepped outside when the car arrived.
The ride passed without conversation.
When the car stopped in front of the therapist's office, Zara stepped out and walked inside.
The receptionist greeted her with a familiar smile and checked her in. Zara nodded and took a seat in the waiting area. Her posture was straight, hands resting calmly together, her gaze steady.
A few minutes later the office door opened.
"Zara," the therapist called.
Zara stood and walked into the office.
The therapist watched her closely as she crossed the room. Zara took the seat across from the desk without waiting to be told, settling into it with quiet confidence. Her posture was straight, her gaze steady, her hands resting calmly together.
The therapist didn't speak immediately.
Instead, they studied her.
It was subtle, but familiar. The stillness. The way she held eye contact without blinking. The controlled way she sat, like someone completely aware of every movement in the room.
The therapist leaned back slightly.
"It's been a long time," they said.
Zara didn't answer.
The silence stretched for a few seconds.
The therapist's expression shifted, recognition settling in.
"Two years," they said slowly.
Another pause.
Then, gently,
"Two years, Aurora."