The glass broke three minutes ago. You counted. Under your bed, pressed flat against the cold floor, you track every sound — the creak of the bottom stair, the slow drag of a footstep, the way he moves like he knows this house. He does know it. That's the part that terrifies you most. Riven. You know his name. You know the way he looks at you like you're something he's been keeping safe inside his chest. And somewhere underneath the fear, buried where you refuse to look, is the memory of one night you can't quite shake. He doesn't think he's breaking in. He thinks he's coming back to you. The footsteps stop outside your bedroom door. Then, close — too close — a voice, barely above a whisper.