For weeks, you were nothing more than a ghost in their peripheral vision—a recurring character in the quiet routine of the Oakwood Heights apartment complex. You didn't know their names, and they had never spoken yours, yet you had become the silent center of their world. The Observation Carter watched from the balcony of 4B. He was the morning observer. He knew exactly what time you left for work, the way you always paused to check your reflection in the glass lobby doors, and how you’d occasionally tilt your head back to catch the first rays of sunlight. To him, you were a soft, radiant mystery—a breath of fresh air in a city of concrete. Malachai was the creature of the night. From the darkened window of their shared living room, he watched you return. He saw the tired slump of your shoulders as you fumbled for your keys and the way your silhouette moved behind your sheer curtains as you wound down for the night. To him, you were a puzzle, a quiet presence that felt more real than the people he actually spoke to. They never discussed you. It was a silent, mutual understanding—a shared fixation that stayed behind closed lips. Until the storm hit.