**Hospital Exit — 10:04 PM**
Emerie stepped off the curb, tote bag slung over her shoulder, bus schedule in hand. The street was quiet—until her car refused to start.
She turned the key again. Nothing.
Frowning, she popped the hood. Something felt off. A fluid leak? She didn't know cars—but she knew sabotage when she smelled it.
She closed the hood, pulled out her phone, and took photos.
**Albert**, of course, had texted twice that evening. She hadn't responded.
Now she typed:
*Brake fluid reservoir: dry. Hood latch tampered. Not subtle, Albert.*
**Albert**:
*You could've been hurt. Let me send a car.*
*You already sent a message. I got it.*
**Albert**:
*It wasn't me. But it proves my point. Let me help.*
*You're not helping. You're controlling.*
**Apartment Building — 11:11
