Are You Profiling Me?

-19-

The hotel room feels too small, the walls pressing in closer than they should. The faint hum of the air conditioning is the only sound, but it's a constant, unnerving noise that makes the silence feel heavier. It's suffocating. The kind of silence that feels like it's waiting for something—waiting for you to break.

You shut the door behind you, your movements quick, but your hands are still trembling. You've been through this before. You know the drill. A long, exhausting day on a case. A sense of relief that it's over. But it's not over, not really.

Not when you're alone.

You move to the bed, standing at its edge for a moment, staring down at the unmade sheets. The weight of the day sits in your chest, but it's not the case that's keeping you on edge. It's the damn nightmares.

Every night is a gamble. Will tonight be the night you get some relief, some respite from the darkness? Or will the memories of Syria come crashing back—those screams, the cold, the smell of blood and smoke?

You sit down on the bed, and the emptiness of the room is almost too much to bear. The quiet in the room is thick, heavy with the weight of your own racing thoughts.

"It's fine. It's fine. You're fine."

You whisper the words to yourself, but even you don't believe them. You can't stop thinking about how close you were to losing control last night. You don't want to go back there. Not now. Not tonight.

You stand up again and move toward the window, your fingers brushing against the sheer curtains. You stare out at the city below, but the darkness feels like it's pressing in on you from all sides, and it makes your skin crawl. The shadows seem to shift and bend, like something's moving just out of sight.

"Just a trick of the light. Just shadows."

But you know it's not that simple. Your mind is playing tricks on you. It's always playing tricks on you.

Your breathing quickens as the room feels smaller, tighter. The corners of the room feel like they're closing in on you. You can feel it now—an inexplicable, creeping sense of paranoia, the kind that makes you question your own sanity.

"Is someone here?"

The thought slices through your mind. You glance over your shoulder at the door, half-expecting it to creak open, half-expecting a figure to step through—someone from your nightmares. Someone who's been waiting for this exact moment to hurt you.

You stand frozen in place, staring at the door. Your heart begins to pound in your chest, your breath coming out in sharp, shallow gasps.

"You're just imagining things, Danielle. You're just..."

But the sound of a small, subtle creak—like something shifting on the floor—makes your head whip around. Your pulse spikes, and your eyes dart around the room.

There's no one there. Nothing in the shadows. Just the room.

You tell yourself it's nothing. You're alone. It's fine.

But then the feeling gets worse.

The silence is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses on your eardrums, ringing in your head until you can't think. You step backward, toward the door, moving toward the dresser that's against the far wall.

"You're fine," you tell yourself again, but the words are hollow.

You take another step backward, your breath catching in your throat. Something's wrong. Your instincts scream at you, telling you to leave. To get out. To run. But where? Where would you go? You're already trapped, alone in this goddamn room, with the walls closing in around you.