Chapter 1 -Perimeter
1162 Words
The grocery store was too bright.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over rows of boxed cereal and canned soup. Rori pushed the cart slowly, her youngest, Souta, perched on the edge, legs swinging. Tomo trailed behind, clutching a bag of gummy worms like it was treasure. Emi walked ahead, earbuds in, scanning shelves for her preferred protein bars.
“Mom,” Emi called over her shoulder, “Coach says I need more electrolytes. Can I get the blue ones this time?”
Rori raised an eyebrow. “The ones that taste like melted plastic?”
“They’re scientifically proven to make me faster.”
“Fine. But if you start glowing, I’m calling NASA.”
Emi smirked and tossed the bottle into the cart.
Tomo tugged at her sleeve. “Can we get batteries? The drone’s camera is glitching.”
“Only if you promise not to spy on the neighbors.”
“I’m not spying. I’m observing.”
“Same thing.”
Souta leaned into her. “Kevin says we need strawberries. For his crown.”
Rori blinked. “Kevin?”
“My dinosaur. He’s royalty now.”
“Of course he is.”
They turned the corner into the produce aisle, and that’s when it hit her—that prickling sensation at the base of her neck. The one she’d learned to trust.
She looked up.
A man stood near the apples, pretending to read a label. Tall. Dark jacket. Face partially obscured by a ball cap. His eyes flicked toward her, then away.
Her pulse quickened.
“Kids,” she said, voice calm but firm. “Let’s grab what we need and go.”
Emi frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
That was enough. They moved quickly, instinctively. Rori paid in cash, eyes scanning the parking lot as they exited. The man didn’t follow. But the feeling didn’t leave.
Back home, the quiet wasn’t comforting. It was suspicious.
Rori locked the door behind them, checked the windows, then peeked through the blinds. Nothing. Just the streetlamp flickering and the distant hum of a car engine.
She tried to shake it off. Tried to believe it was nothing.
But she knew better.
Later, the kids scattered—Emi to the garage with her volleyball, Tomo to the porch with his drone, Souta to the living room floor with his sketchpad. Rori stood at the sink, hands in warm water, scrubbing the remnants of dinner from a pan.
She watched them through the window. Emi’s sets thumped rhythmically against the garage wall. Tomo muttered to himself, wires and tools spread around him. Souta was drawing something with a crown—probably Kevin.
The screen door creaked as she stepped outside.
“Emi, ten more sets, then homework.”
“Got it, boss.”
Tomo looked up. “Did you know this thing has a hidden camera? I think it’s military-grade.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Dumpster diving. Mr. Andover said it was junk. I disagree.”
She ruffled his hair. “Just don’t fly it into anyone’s window.”
Souta tugged at her sleeve. “Mommy, Kevin says the new house is sad.”
She crouched beside him. “Why’s that?”
“He says it’s lonely. Like it misses its old people.”
She kissed his forehead. “Then we’ll make it happy.”
Before she could stand, a sleek black car pulled up across the street. It didn’t belong. Not in this neighborhood. Not on this street.
The man who stepped out was all tailored lines and Mediterranean heat—Alessandro “Sandro” Luciani. He waved, his grin too easy, too practiced.
“Evening, Tanaka,” he called. “Thought I’d drop by. Got something for you.”
Behind him, another figure emerged—Ren “Kage-sama” Takahashi. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He simply nodded, eyes scanning the street like a predator on patrol.
Rori straightened, her spine stiff. “What kind of something?”
Sandro held up a folder. “Protection. And a job offer.”
Ren’s gaze met hers. Quiet. Heavy. Knowing.
Her heart thudded once, hard. The perimeter was shifting.
Sandro crossed the street with the confidence of a man who owned it. His cologne hit first—warm spice and something expensive. He handed her the folder like it was a gift, his fingers brushing hers deliberately.
“Security proposal,” he said. “And a partnership idea. You’ve got skills, Rori. Medical case management, crisis response. We could use someone like you.”
She opened the folder. Inside: a contract, a glossy brochure for Luciani & Takahashi Security, and a photo that made her stomach drop—a grainy shot of her and the kids at the park two days ago.
Her voice came out low. “Where did you get this?”
Sandro’s grin faded. “That’s why we’re here.”
Ren spoke for the first time, his voice smooth but edged. “Someone’s watching you.”
The words hung heavy in the cooling air. Emi stopped mid-set, sensing the shift. Tomo’s drone whirred softly, its camera blinking like an eye.
“My ex?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Sandro said. “Maybe not. Whoever it is, they’re good. No digital footprint. No obvious motive.”
Ren’s gaze swept the street again, then landed on the mailbox across the way. A glint of metal caught the last light of dusk—a tiny lens, almost invisible.
“Inside,” Ren said, already moving.
The living room felt smaller with them in it. Sandro lounged on the arm of the couch like he owned the place. Ren stood near the window, a shadow against the fading light.
Rori paced, arms crossed. “I left that life behind. I don’t want syndicates, deals, or whatever this is.”
Sandro’s smile returned, softer now. “This isn’t about business. It’s about keeping you and your kids breathing.”
Ren turned from the window, holding something between his fingers—a micro camera, sleek and black. “They were watching from across the street. This isn’t amateur.”
Her pulse hammered. Her safe house wasn’t safe. Her perimeter was breached before she even knew it existed.
Emi appeared in the doorway, chin high. “Mom? What’s going on?”
Rori forced calm into her voice. “Just… grown-up stuff.”
Sandro winked at Emi. “Don’t worry, bella. We’re the good guys.”
Ren didn’t smile. “Good is relative.”
Later, after the kids were in bed and the men were gone, Rori stood at the window, staring at the street. The mailbox lens was gone, but the feeling remained—eyes on her, patient and unseen.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
Nice house. Looks better with you in it.
Her breath caught. The quiet outside wasn’t peace. It was a promise.
And promises could kill.
- Writer
