Brooding back at my apartment

I toss my coat onto the chair and drop onto the couch, my body sinking into the worn cushions like I’m trying to disappear. The past 24h keep playing on a loop in my head, gnawing at me no matter how hard I try to push them away. I grab my phone, scroll through social media, swipe through apps—anything to drown out the images burned into my brain.

But they come back anyway.

Trevor’s wild, glassy eyes. The sound—God, that sound—of his body hitting the alley wall. That stranger’s voice, cold as ice.

I rub my temples and mutter under my breath, “Get it together, it's over.” Like saying it will make it happen.

My fingers fumble for my vape on the coffee table. I take a long drag, the hum of the device oddly comforting in the stillness of my apartment.

I stand up and cross the room to my closet, yanking open the door like I’m looking for answers inside. My hands go through the motions, laying out clothes for tomorrow: a sleek black pencil skirt, a pale blue blouse, and matching heels. The ritual is grounding, a reminder of the structured, predictable life I'm trying to live—one I need to hold onto now more than ever.

But I’m not.

No matter how neatly I fold the blouse, my thoughts spiral back.

I was so close to fucking dying, all because of that lunatic, Trevor. How could I have not seen it? He was creepy, sure, but a full-blown, deranged psycho? I wonder what was going on in his sick brain? He would’ve butchered me like a Thanksgiving turkey if that stranger hadn’t stepped in.

I can still hear him. That voice—calm, steady, like nothing in the world could shake him. Ryan couldn't comprehend how strong he was. But was he strong? No. That was beyond strong. What he did wasn’t human. I know it in my bones. And Trevor didn’t just die from hitting that wall. That stranger finished him somehow. I’m sure of it.

And then the police today. Completely useless. The case closed faster than I could blink. “Natural causes”? Yeah right. Not after that. The CSI reruns I binged with Monica taught me that autopsies don’t happen in a couple of hours. And no coroner in their right mind would ignore injuries like Trevor’s.

I take another drag from my vape and sit on the edge of the bed. Something’s off. The police are hiding something, but why? And then there’s that British guy—Monica’s “investigator.” Asking about a missing girl. Could Trevor have been involved in that too? Is that why he snapped? Or is there something bigger going on here?

I let out a slow breath. Do I really want to know?

I could let it go. Forget it happened. Try to move on. Pretend I’m safe now. Go back to my life, my routines, my coffee runs and late-night Netflix binges. Convince myself this was just a horrible, freak event.

But could I?

Could I really live with not knowing? Could I sleep at night wondering if this is over—or if it’s just beginning?

I stare at my reflection in the darkened window, the city lights blinking beyond the glass. My heart beats a little faster, and I know deep down—I have to choose.

Do I dig deeper?

Or do I turn away before I get pulled into something... something even more dangerous?