ll groggy with sleep. The bed beneath me was slightly rumpled, the blankets twisted from restless tossing. But that wasn't what sent ice trickling down my spine. The silence. It was too still. I tu

epair service, my fingers unsteady as I dialed the number. The call rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Yeah?" "Hi, I need someone to repair a broken window. It's urgent." "Address?" I rattled it off, chewing the inside of my cheek. "Someone will be there in an hour." The line went dead. I lowered the phone, exhaling. An hour. That was enough time to push last night aside, to pretend this was just a normal morning. But deep down, I knew- Nothing about this was normal anymore. I dragged a hand through my damp hair, shaking off the last remnants of unease. The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 AM-too early to dwell on the what-ifs circling in my head. I needed something normal, something routine. Breakfast. Padding over to the tiny kitchenette in the corner of the room, I opened the mini fridge, scanning its limited contents. A carton of eggs, half a loaf of bread, a stick of butter, and some orange juice. Simple, but it would do. I set a pan on the stovetop, letting the butter melt as I cracked two eggs into it. The quiet sizzle filled the space, a comforting sound against the weight of last night. Toast went into the small pop-up toaster, and as I stood there, flipping the eggs, I focused on the rhythmic motions-the scrape of the spatula, the soft pop of the toast, the citrusy scent of fresh orange juice filling the air. For a few minutes, it felt normal. I sat at the small wooden table by the window, cutting into my eggs, chewing slowly as I tried to convince myself that today would be just another day. No strange men bleeding out in my room. No lingering paranoia. Just me, my breakfast, and the sound of the city waking up beyond the glass. Then- A sharp knock at the door. I set my fork down, swallowing the bite I'd just taken. The repairman. Right on time. Rising from my seat, I wiped my hands on a napkin and made my way to the door. Through the peephole, I saw a man in his late fifties, dressed in a navy-blue work jacket with a toolbox in one hand. His expression was neutral, bored even, like this was just another job on his list. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. "You called for a window repair?" His voice was gruff, businesslike. I nodded. "Yeah, it's in the bedroom. This way." He followed me inside, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as I led him to the damaged window. He let out a low whistle. "That's a nasty break. What happened?" I hesitated. "So