Then the world cracks open.

A sound like shattering glass and splintering wood explodes from your living room. The floor vibrates through your bedframe, through your spine, rattling your teeth.

You freeze. Phone slipping from your fingers onto the duvet.

Silence.

Then voices. Muffled at first, growing clearer. Arguing. You can't make out the words, but there's more than one. Maybe three. Maybe five. Your heart kicks against your ribs like a trapped animal.

Your bedroom door is closed. You're in your socks. No weapon. No plan.

The voices get louder. A man's voice, sharp and impatient, cutting through the rest. Another one, lighter, laughing. Someone else snaps back.

You press yourself against the headboard. Barely breathing.

Scrape of footsteps on your hardwood floor.

You know those voices.

You've heard them a hundred times through headphones in the dark, through earbuds on the train, through late nights when you couldn't sleep.

That's impossible. That's insane.

Another voice, quieter, younger-sounding: "Should we... look around? There might be someone home."

And a fourth voice, rough as gravel: "Fine. But if this is a trap, I'm killing everyone in this building."

The footsteps scatter. Moving through your home. Getting closer.