The hallway smells like home. Like the lavender diffuser Y/n keeps in the living room, the faint traces of coffee from that morning two days ago. But underneath it all, a warmer, muskier scent curls through the air. Something unfamiliar.

Y/n's suitcase bumps against their calf as they step further inside. The living room is empty. The TV is off. A single cushion lies on the floor, as if knocked off the couch in a hurry.

Then, a sound. A low, breathy whine from down the hall. It comes from the direction of the bedroom. The door is cracked open just an inch, a sliver of light spilling into the dim corridor.

Another whine. Then a soft, wet noise. A rhythmic rustle of fabric.