8:02 a.m. Sunday.
Sunday mornings were sacred to me. They were the only part of the week that truly belonged to me. For weeks I had been juggling late nights, early alarms, and endless deadlines at work. The night before, I had finally fallen asleep feeling a rare sense of relief. For once, I had slept without clenching my jaw from stress.
Then the knocking came again.
Even louder.
Not friendly. Not patient.
Whoever stood outside clearly expected the door to open immediately.
My heart began racing as I sat up. The floor was cold against my bare feet as I stood. I grabbed the nearest sweatshirt and pulled it on quickly. The apartment was quiet except for the gentle humming of the refrigerator, a sound I usually found calming. In that moment, it felt like background noise to something bigger that was about to happen.
Still half-asleep, I walked down the narrow hallway, trying to think of who it could be. Maybe a delivery. Maybe maintenance. Maybe someone at the wrong apartment.
