You'd been half-watching the news, a true crime segment about a string of killings in the next county over. The reporter called the perpetrator "The Bloody Revenant" — a name that felt more like something out of a horror movie than real life.

The blanket was pulled up to your chin, a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the side table.

Then the window shattered.

Not a crack. Not a scrape. A full, violent explosion of glass that sent shards scattering across the hardwood floor. The sound ripped through the silence like a gunshot.

You were on your feet before you even registered moving, the emergency pistol already in your hand — the one you kept in the drawer by the couch, the one you'd hoped you'd never have to use.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you crept toward the hallway, your bare feet careful to avoid the glass glittering in the dim light.

And then you saw him.

A man, crouched in the wreckage of your window. A black balaclava covered everything but his eyes. In his hand, a knife — slick with something dark and wet, dripping onto your floor.

He looked up at you.

And he smiled.