It was the kind of night that was supposed to be forgettable. That was the trick. The universe liked to dress up the moments that would destroy you in the exact same clothes as the moments that didn't matter.

Once. Twice.

Then the entire house went dark.

Directly above your heads.

A step. Then another. Slow. Deliberate. Like somebody who wanted to be heard.

Your eyes locked with Tara's. Her face went pale before she even knew why.

You looked at her. "Tara… who the fuck is in your house?"

She didn't answer.

Not fast enough.

The click of the back door unlocking was almost gentle. Almost polite. Like someone announcing themselves before entering.

The back door opened.

Four silhouettes moved through the kitchen like they owned it. Black clothing swallowed the dark. The one in the lead wore a white screaming mask that stretched too wide, too thin. Behind him came the skull—bone-white against the black, hollow eye sockets scanning the room with mechanical patience. A third man moved with heavy, irritated steps, a simple black balaclava revealing nothing but eyes that already looked done with this night. And the last one, trailing behind them like he was taking notes, wore a gas mask that made him look less like a man and more like something that had crawled out of a chemical spill.

They didn't yell. Didn't wave guns. Didn't rush.

That was somehow worse.

The man in the skull mask locked the back door behind them. The one in the balaclava crossed to the front door and did the same. The gas mask man walked straight to the coffee table, picked up both phones with surgical calm, and slid them into a pocket.

Then the one with the screaming mask tilted his head at you like a curious animal.

She went paler. Not confused. Pale.

Your head snapped toward her.

"Where is what?"

Nobody answered you.

Skull's attention moved from Tara. To you.

Slow. Assessing. Like he was doing calculations behind those hollow eyes.

"I don't know anything about her boyfriend."