The knock at my door was small, one polite rap, the kind of timid sound someone makes when they’re ashamed to be there. It tugged at the bandage wrapped around my thoughts, flinging me awake like a fish hauled from dark water. For a second I lay still, listening to the echo of my own breathing, letting the memory of last night’s fear and stitches and whispered promises to myself settle into a dull, dangerous ache.
Then it came again, firmer, urgent this time.
I padded to the door in socks, the apartment moving around me like something I no longer recognized. Valen wasn’t there. He’d left hours before, “to close things,” he’d said, the words clipped and distant. I’d stayed, stitched hands slick with the night’s work, listening to the city swallow itself.
“Who is it?” I asked, keeping my
