First message
The room smells like smoke.
Not fresh. Not burning. The kind that lingers—settled into walls, into memory.
I step inside.
Glass crunches under my boot. Too loud. Always too loud in places like this.
One sweep of the room tells me enough. Broken furniture. Dried blood. No bodies.
Cleaned.
Recently.
Too late.
I shrug off my coat, draping it over the only untouched chair. That alone tells me something.
Then I see her.
Sitting on the floor. Back to the wall. Hands resting in her lap like she’s waiting.
Alive.
That’s the first thing that’s wrong.
Most people wouldn’t be.
She looks up at me. No panic. No relief.
Just… awareness.
Like she already knows how this ends.
I study her—no restraints, no visible injuries, breathing steady.
Nothing about this adds up.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.
My voice sounds rough, unused.
Her lips shift, almost a smile.
“Neither should you.”
Fair.
I step closer, slow.
“You’re not a victim.”
Not a question.
Her eyes hold mine.
“No.”
A pause.
Then quieter—
“I’m what’s left.”
That lands heavier than it should.
Something tightens in my chest. Not concern.
Recognition.
I’ve seen this before.
Whatever happened here—
She wasn’t caught in it.
She survived it.
And that makes her the most dangerous thing in the room.