typing, Sorry, wrong—

Another message came through.

Who did this to you?

The bathroom seemed to contract around her.

Damon rattled the handle.

“Open the door.”

The stranger texted again.

Send me address.

I’m on my way.

There was no comfort in the words.

No gentleness.

No attempt to calm her.

Only certainty.

Lena should have ignored it.

She knew that.

But the door shook under another blow, pain split through her ribs, and fear erased caution faster than reason could rebuild it.

She sent the address.

I’m close, the stranger replied.

That made no sense.

No one could be close.

Then she noticed the old message history above the new texts.

You still have this number?

Always.

The memory came back in a fractured piece.

Months earlier, after a long shift and too much cheap wine at Maya’s apartment, Lena had laughed over a wrong-number call.

The man on the line had sounded older, clipped, and oddly formal.

Maya, half joking, had told Lena to text him and ask whether he was a killer.

Lena had done it.

The stranger had answered with unnerving seriousness.

The exchange had lasted only minutes before he wrote, If you ever need immediate help and can’t call emergency services, text this number once.

Don’t misuse it.

She and Maya had laughed for a week about the mystery vigilante with the terrifying grammar.

Now Lena’s mouth went dry.

Another crash split the bathroom door.

Then, from outside the house, came the low sweep of engines.

Several.

Headlights cut through the frosted bathroom window.

Damon’s footsteps moved away from the door fast.

A minute later, the front door downstairs opened.

A man spoke in a calm voice that was somehow more frightening than a shout.

“Which one of you touched her?”

Silence.

Then Damon tried anger.

“Get out of my house.”

The man answered, “You have ten seconds to decide whether you want to lie to me standing up.”

Lena heard a hard impact, then another.

Something shattered.

Her entire body tensed.

The phone in her hand buzzed.

Can you walk?

Barely, she typed.

Do not open that door until I tell you.

She obeyed because the command was easier to follow than thinking.

Downstairs, voices rose and fell.

Damon’s became sharp and frightened.

The stranger’s never changed.

Lena could not make out every word, but she heard enough.

“Her phone.”

“Upstairs.”

“Wrong answer.”

Then a choked sound from Damon that made Lena squeeze her eyes shut.

A knock came at the bathroom door.

One controlled rap.

“Lena,” the stranger said.

“Open the door.

Slowly.”

She stared at the splintered lock.

With trembling hands, she turned it and pulled.

The man standing on the other side was not what she had expected, which only made him more dangerous looking.

He was in his forties, maybe older, broad-shouldered in a charcoal overcoat that still carried night rain on the collar.

Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.

Clean-shaven.

No visible weapon.

No raised voice.

Behind him stood three men in black suits spread through the hallway with the stillness of trained guards.

And behind them, on his knees near the stair landing, was Damon.

His lip was split.

One eye already swelling.

His hands were zip-tied behind his back.

The man by the door looked