The bed was empty. Sheets twisted at the foot, pillow still dented. A phone on the nightstand — cracked, screen dark — sat beside a glass of water, half-drunk. A jacket draped over the chair. Keys on the dresser.

She was here. She was here last night.

The front door was slightly ajar, and it swayed. A quiet, rhythmic knock against the frame. The kind that said someone had left in a hurry. Or had been taken in one.

Outside, the street was quiet. A single car idled at the curb, engine humming, waiting. Or just passing time.

On the floor, near the door, a small scuff mark. Dark, almost black. A smear — like a shoe dragged against the wood, halfway through something.

And then, movement out in the hallway.

Footsteps entered slow, deliberate, stopping outside her door — one shadow, six foot three, dark hair, and eyes that did not blink.