Hunted

Naomi

Chapter 19

"It says you no longer have a check-in list," the front desk woman says, her voice cold, indifferent. The words hit me like a slap, but my mind is already spinning out of control. Nausea rises in my throat, a sharp wave that nearly double me over.
Everything felt disconnected, fractured, ever since—ever since Marcus. The things he said. I could barely think straight, my thoughts tangling into knots I couldn't untie.

I turned the key in the door, the familiar click echoing louder than it should have. But when I stepped inside, the world tilted violently.

Nothing. The apartment was stripped bare. No furniture, no photos, no sign of the life I had once built there. The space that was supposed to be my sanctuary was now a cold, empty shell. My breath caught in my throat, panic flaring sharp and sudden.

Everything was gone.

My chest tightened, the air around me too thick, too suffocating. I stumbled backward, my heart racing faster than I could control. I grabbed my inhaler, then another, desperately trying to force the breath back into my lungs. But it wasn't working. I wasn't working.

I dropped to my knees in the middle of the empty room, gasping for air, my hands shaking as I tried to steady myself. But there was no relief, no escape from the reality crashing down around me. Every piece of my life had been ripped away, and I was left with nothing—just the echo of my own breathing in that hollow, silent space.

My phone vibrates and I take it out of my bag.

MARCUS: Remember that video? Of that girl?

MARCUS: It's your fault she was like that. But do you know? She loved it.

Shivers crawl down my spine as I reread the texts over and over, my mind swirling with questions. The girl in the video—who is she? How could she be connected to me? I have no other girl in my life. Ariella is the last person who knows about it. It. Yet, this girl, with her unfamiliar face, is someone I don't recognize. A stranger.

But none of that matters right now. Not when everything I own is gone.

"My apartment is empty!" I say, my voice trembling. "I left just a few hours ago. I live there! You can't just remove me from the list."

The woman at the front desk glances at her computer, her expression neutral, almost indifferent. "I understand, ma'am, but according to our records, your apartment is scheduled to be emptied within two days."

Her words hit me like a blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I grab at my hair, the weight of it all crashing down, and my legs give out beneath me. The floor feels cold as I sink to my knees, the reality of what is happening clawing at me.

"Ma'am," the woman's voice softens as she rises from her chair. A few other staff members approach, their faces etched with concern as they reach out to help me stand.

"No, no, no," I mutter, panic overtaking me. "This can't be real. I have nowhere else to go!"

I can barely hear them anymore, their voices drowned by the ringing in my ears. My heart races, my vision blurs, and the walls seem to close in around me. There is no escape. My home—everything I have—is gone.

"Please, calm down," one of the staff members urges, trying to steady me. But the weight of it all is too much. I have nothing left.