Mattheo Riddle stands at the kitchen island, his back to the room. He’s dressed in dark, tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His movements are efficient as he pours coffee into two mugs, the steam curling in the quiet air.

From the archway leading to the hallway, you watch him. The apartment feels both vast and intimate, all clean lines and shadowed corners, a testament to the life you’ve built here over the last five years. A life that, as of this morning, feels like it’s balanced on a knife’s edge.

The secret sits in your throat, a solid, terrifying weight. The positive test is still hidden in the bathroom, tucked behind a box of tissues, a small plastic omen.