Chapter 5. Police

My apartment is chaos.

The kind that doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t wait.

The couch is overturned—its legs splintered, cushions gutted like prey. Pillows torn wide open, their stuffing strewn across the floor like white ash after a fire. My bookshelf, once alphabetized and obsessively neat, now gutted—pages ripped, spines cracked, shelves dangling off bent nails.

Curtains are clawed apart.

A lamp lies shattered in the corner like a casualty.

The kitchen drawers gape open, knives missing from the block, silverware scattered like teeth.

It’s not a robbery.

It’s rage.

Controlled. Calculated. Personal.

“Eliza…” I whisper, more to the room than to her.

Behind me, she exhales slow and stunned. “Holy shit…”

But I’m already moving.

Running.

Barefoot over glass and splinters, my heartbeat screaming in my ears.

Down the hallway. Past the bathroom. Into my bedroom.

I fall to my knees so hard it bruises. My hands dive under the bed.

The box.

Please—please, let it be—

My fingers brush cold metal. I drag it out.

It’s dented. Warped. The lock has been forced—twisted sideways like someone jammed a crowbar or screwdriver in and cranked until it snapped.

“No,” I breathe, lifting it onto the bed, hands shaking.

The lid creaks.

Inside—everything.

Laid out in neat, surgical rows.

My documents. Photos. Old letters. Sketches I haven’t looked at in years. My birth certificate. Bank records. School IDs.

Not missing. Not stolen.

Displayed.

Like someone wanted to see them.

To see me.

I stumble back a step. I feel stripped. Naked. Like someone peeled me open while I wasn’t looking.

“Eliza!” I call hoarsely. “It’s all here. But—God, it’s like they dissected me.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

I gather everything with frantic hands. Stack it. Fold it. Try to erase the exposure. But the damage is done.

My body doesn’t stop trembling.

Something glints by the bedroom threshold.

I crawl again. Fingers sifting through glass.

It’s a ring.

Silver. Heavy. Cold.

Smooth until I turn it—

There. Inside the band. A symbol.

Sharp. Curved. Ancient.

It gleams like a scar.

And I know it.

Not from memory. Not consciously.

But something deep—deeper—shudders when I see it.

Like a bell tolling behind my ribs.

The panic that had started to dull spikes again.

I close my fist around the ring.

It feels wrong.

Too familiar.

It feels like his.

But he didn’t seem like this—whoever he was.

He was smooth. Cold, yes, but precise. Calculated.

This destruction? This is messy. Animal.

Still... I remember his hands.

The way his thumb brushed my skin.

A silver gleam at his knuckle.

Was it this ring?

I don’t know.

But something inside me twists.

Because maybe.

Maybe.

I feel cold from the inside out.

Everything—the drinks, the warmth from earlier—it vanishes.

Just me, my wrecked apartment, and this burning ring in my palm.

And the realization that someone had been here.

Not just in my apartment.

But inside my life.

And they didn’t steal a damn thing.

They just looked.

Eliza bursts into my room like she’s been shot from a cannon.

“Rae,” she gasps. “Someone’s knocking.”

I freeze.

Still clutching the ring like it’s a lifeline.

“Knocking?”

She nods, breathless, pale. “It’s heavy. Loud. Like they mean it.”

“Did you call someone?” I whisper.

“I—I was thinking on calling the neighbours and ask if they saw something. But then I..."

Her eyes land on the ring. Her pupils dilate.

"The hell you got that, Rae?!"

I shrug. "I found it. Here. Near the door after i was done checking my documents."

“That symbol,” she breathes. “I saw it. Earlier. When we were digging on the dark web.”

My pulse jumps. “Where?”

“One of those threads. You remember—the hidden ones? Threads people said not to click. They had that symbol. Again and again. Connected to someone. Something.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing clear. Just warnings. People begging others to leave it alone. Some said the symbol meant someone was watching. That if you searched too hard… you disappeared.”

I grip the ring tighter. “Then maybe we can find those threads again. Maybe whoever left this ring behind left a trail too.”

Eliza shakes her head so fast her ponytail swings. “They wore masks, Rae. I told you. Full blackouts. No IPs. No usernames. Just symbols and silence.”

Bang.

A knock. No—a pounding.

We both jump.

“Shit,” I hiss. “That didn’t sound like—”

Another bang.

And then—voices, again.

“Police! Open up!”

I whip toward Eliza.

“What about them? Did you?”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes.

She looks like she might vomit. “I said I would—but I didn’t. Rae, I swear—I got distracted with all the mess in the kitchen. Then..."

She shrugs. Fists clenched on her both sides.

My stomach drops.

“Then who the hell—”

Another bang.

More urgent.

More aggressive.

We move.

Fast. Silent. Into the kitchen.

Grab knives—long, sharp, stupid. Mine trembles in my hand.

We creep toward the door. Barefoot. Breathing hard.

The voices come again.

A man. A woman. Firm. Rehearsed.

“This is the police. Open the door. Now!”

I whisper, “Something’s wrong.”

Eliza swallows. “Maybe—maybe the neighbors called it in. Maybe they saw the door kicked in or—”

“Do they sound like cops to you?”

We stand frozen behind the wall.

Waiting.

Watching.

My fingers tighten around the blade in one hand, the ring in the other.

It feels symbolic.

Steel and silver.

A weapon and a warning.

Another bang.

Then silence.

Long. Dense.

My breath is a scream inside my chest.

The doorknob twists.

Locked.

Thank God.

But it twists again.

Harder.

Then—scraping.

Metal on metal.

They’re trying to pick the lock.

Eliza chokes a breath.

“Rae—”

I don’t answer. I just reach for my phone.

Dial 911.

No dispatcher answers.

"Pick it up motherfucker! Pick it up!"

I'm loud. I don’t care if the people outside can hear me.

Because now I know.

Whoever’s on the other side of that door—

They might not be cops.

They came to look before.

And now?

Now they’ve come back.

To take.