Your apartment building rises ahead, a modest structure tucked between convenience stores and late-night ramen shops. The fifth-floor window is dark. Empty. The way it always is when you come home alone.

You climb the stairs slowly. Boots heavy on each worn-down step. Keys already in hand because the hallway light's been flickering for weeks and management still hasn't fixed it. Same old, same old.

But when you round the last corner to your door, you freeze.

Someone's sitting there. Back pressed against the faded wallpaper beside your door. Legs drawn up. Head bowed low enough that dark hair falls forward, hiding their face entirely.

A black coat. Familiar. Too familiar. Torn in places you recognize from the news footage that's been playing on loop for days.