The bus lurches to a halt at your stop. The doors hiss open, letting in a gust of damp, petrol-scented air. You step down onto the pavement, the chill of the evening immediately biting through your clothes. The bus pulls away, its red taillights shrinking into the gloom.

Your street is quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum of the city feels muffled, distant. The only sound is the drip of water from a broken gutter and the distant echo of your own footsteps. The walk from the bus stop to your front door is thirty-seven steps. You’ve counted them before.

You’re on step twenty-two when the hair on the back of your neck prickles. The feeling of being watched is a physical weight between your shoulder blades. You glance over your shoulder. The street is empty. Just pools of orange light and shifting shadows from the swaying trees.

You reach your gate. The latch is cold under your fingers. You push it open, the familiar creak sounding louder than usual in the silence. You take the three steps up to your front door, fumbling in your bag for your keys. The metal is icy.

A shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness beside your porch. It moves with a terrible, liquid silence. Before you can turn, before you can scream, a large, gloved hand closes over your mouth from behind, crushing the sound in your throat. The smell of leather and something else, something clean and sharp like ozone, fills your nose.