The first week of January 2026 had already tasted like ash in Ethan's mouth, and it was only getting worse.
He stood in the middle of his old apartment—the one he'd kept as storage after moving in with Alex—surrounded by cardboard boxes labeled in his own neat handwriting: "Dental School Books," "Old Clothes," "Miscellaneous Memories (Do Not Open Unless Drunk)." The place smelled faintly of dust, vanilla air freshener he'd sprayed years ago, and something sharper now. Something metallic. Something wrong.
He'd come here alone this morning, telling Alex he needed to grab a few patient files he'd archived.
A half-truth. The real reason was the text that had arrived at 4:47 a.m.:
"Missed our old sanctuary. Come visit. I left you a gift. – V."
Ethan had stared at the message until the screen timed out, heart hammering so hard he thought it might crack a rib.
