Danger looms

"Why ugh?" Marco was taken aback by his idea for dessert. He thought they'd have a nice night debriefing the events of her night out prowling for her next prey. He'd been listening to the audio feed for hours, and got hard listening to her recount even the smallest details of the night.

"Subways stink." She said, her boots clanking up the metal stairs, the noise echoing in the small space. "Be home in ten."

Marco's brow furrowed as he ended the call. Subways stink. That was it? He stood up from the monitor where he'd been mindlessly refreshing a security feed of their apartment lobby. He walked to the window, looking down at the street, but he couldn't see her yet. The city was a tapestry of lights, red and white streaks on the asphalt river below.

He turned back to the monitors, one for the lobby, one for the hallway, one for the roof access. He ran the security footage from the lobby from an hour ago. He fast-forwarded through the usual comings and goings of their neighbors—Ms. Petrova with her poodle, the teenager who skateboarded through the lobby despite the signs. Then he saw them. Two men. Dressed in dark suits that looked expensive and uncomfortable. They stood at the front desk, speaking to the night concierge. Marco zoomed in on the concierge's monitor, the camera feed grainy but clear enough. One of the men gestured, and the concierge's face went pale before he nodded slowly, then shook his head. The other man leaned in, and whatever he said made the concierge pick up the phone.

He didn't notice the alert at first, a small, blinking icon in the corner of the screen. A silent, unobtrusive notification he'd programmed himself. He clicked on it, and a new window opened, a stark white background with black text. A court docket. Her father's estate file. Sealed. And someone had accessed it. Thirty minutes ago. He felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He went back to the lobby footage, timestamping it. The men had arrived twenty minutes after the file was accessed.

He replayed the audio from the concierge's phone call, filtering out the static. He could just make out the words. "Yes, I understand... No, she's out... Her fiancé is, though... Marco... Yes, that's the one... I see." The concierge hung up, his hands trembling as he adjusted his tie.

Marco's hands flew across the keyboard, pulling up building schematics, service entrances, fire escapes. He was a builder, a tracer, a listener. And he could feel the walls closing in. He locked the apartment door, the deadbolt sliding into place with a solid thud. Then he went to the window, looking down at the street again. She was getting closer. He could see her now, a dark figure moving against the bright lights of the city.

There's not enough time. Not enough to explain. Not enough to pack. His hands darted across his phone screen, writing Isabella a warning message. Then he deleted it. Too much info, too little time. He typed a new one: "Lobby. Two men. Be careful." He hit send. Then he waited, keeping one eye at the video feed and another out the window.