𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀𝐍

𝐎𝐍𝐄

Katherine Louise glared up at the ceiling of her apartment building. A hole had somehow been punched into the acoustical tile, exposing the wiring and pipes and tubes. 

This wasn't even a bad building.

Shaking her head and continuing up the eighth flight of stairs, she kept grumbling about how she doesn't pay so much in rent to live somewhere with holes in places there shouldn't be.

The young woman juggled her keys and laundry basket for a moment before shoving the gold key into the front door of 408 and twisted to the right, humming Bob Seger's Beautiful Loser. She left the record playing in the apartment, and she can hear the track playing through the thin walls. That, and her neighbor's...extracurriculars. If Sophia were here, she'd be on the sofa drafting a letter about how this is the third time this week there was a sexual disturbance—good for her, but a disturbance none the less. 

And anyway...screaming? There's no way sex was that good.

Somehow, every front door in the building violated the golden rule of "righty tighty, lefty loosey," which was a big deal to Katherine when she moved in at the tender age of sixteen. How could a door not follow the rules of the only thing in her life that hadn't changed?

She felt personally attacked.

The door had always been a heavy thing and creaked—a short and alarming squawk—as it opened and closed. The weight of it slammed into the doorframe time after time. It reminded her of the dozens of dodgy motel rooms she stayed in for years, all with the same creaky door and questionable stains.

The second the shut the door, there was a light noise down the hall, a small clatter, like a glass on her desk. Not broken—set down.

Katherine paused for a brief moment before continuing into her apartment with caution in her step. 

Sophia was definitely not here...

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and that quiet ringing seemed to intensify, searching for anything that would disrupt it. Another clatter, a floorboard creak, a voice. Katherine glanced to the windowsill above the sink—still lined with salt. And the door to her apartment travelled right over the line, so there was no disruption there.

She ventured down the hallway and set her laundry bag on the ground before flicking her bedroom light on.

She didn't scream. Her eyes had just landed on the figure by her door. He opened his mouth to speak—that was his intention, to speak to her—but then the woman swung.

In retrospect, waiting in her room wasn't his finest decision.

He grunted and averted her fist to the side, wrapped his long fingers around her wrist before twisting it behind her back, and pinned her to the wall. The gun was slipped from his waistband and hammer pulled back before she felt the muzzle press into the small of her back—all in under five seconds.

Katherine stared at the wall with a squished cheek obstructing her vision, breathing labored from adrenaline and the brief tussle. "Look, dude," she huffed, blonde strands of hair moving with her breath. She wiggled her fingers, the tendons of her wrist moving underneath the man's ironclad grip. "If you're trying to rob someone, don't try college kids. They're broker than the next homeless person."

After a moment, the pressure around her wrists disappeared. She slowly moved her arm to her chest, flexing her hand, and quickly swiped the gun from him before turning it around to face the man. Then he got a good look at her—and he'd be lying if he denied being attracted to her.

Light brown roots fade into a shade of wheat, highlighted with thin, pale strands of gold. Feathered blunt fringe hangs just below her brow. He can still see the two full dark eyebrows underneath her bangs.