The elevator groaned as it carried Lena Hayes and a stack of battered cardboard boxes up to the 14th floor. The mirrored walls reflected a tired young woman in jeans and a faded festival T-shirt, copper-brown hair frizzing from the humidity. At twenty-nine, Lena wasn’t tall—five-four, at best—but her hazel eyes held a sharpness, the kind of watchfulness you develop after leaving someone who always demanded to be one step ahead of you.

The doors slid open to a hushed corridor. The silence was startling. No footsteps, no laughter or muffled TVs. The air smelled faintly of bleach and something floral, as if masking something less pleasant.

Her apartment was at the far end: 1408. She fumbled with the keys, pushed open the door, and was greeted by a sterile mix of fresh paint and lemon cleaner. Too clean. Too empty.

As she stepped back into the hallway for another box, her eyes caught on the apartment across the hall. 1409. The door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible.

Then he appeared.

A tall man, at least six feet, with lean shoulders and a face carved from angles: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and storm-gray eyes that caught the fluorescent light. His black hoodie was zipped to the collar, his dark hair tousled like he hadn’t touched a comb in days, yet somehow deliberate.

“New neighbor,” he said. His voice was low, rough, magnetic.

“Yeah,” Lena managed, shifting the box in her arms. “Just moved in today.”

He looked at her door, then back to her face. Assessing. Memorizing.

“Welcome to the building.”

Before she could answer, his door clicked shut.

Weird. But then again, she hadn’t come here for friendly neighbors. She’d come here to disappear.