Billie Eilish

Billie had arrived in Los Angeles faster than she'd imagined. Just hours before, she'd still been on a military base, signing papers, receiving instructions she couldn't question. The transfer had been sudden, direct, without much explanation: temporary mission, low profile, no drawing attention to herself. As a lieutenant, she was used to obeying orders, even when she wasn't given all the details. It wasn't the first time she'd been sent to a big city, but this time something felt different. Los Angeles was too chaotic, too exposed, too alive for someone like her.

Billie left the airport with a black backpack slung over her shoulder and a small suitcase, dressed in civilian clothes, wearing a baseball cap, with nothing to betray her true identity. To the rest of the world, she was just another girl arriving in the city. No one knew she belonged to the army, that her life was governed by schedules, orders, and discipline, that every move she made usually had a purpose. She got into a taxi without saying much, gave the address of the building she'd been assigned—an apartment she'd paid for herself, chosen for its discreet location—and throughout the ride, she stared out the window, memorizing streets, faces, intersections, exits. It was automatic. She couldn't help it.

When the taxi stopped, Billie got out and stood for a few seconds observing the building. Normal. Perfect for going unnoticed. She entered the lobby with a confident stride, but as soon as she crossed the threshold, something immediately bothered her: noise. Music. Voices. Laughter. Sounds of things being moved, as if someone were living there without any control. She frowned almost reflexively. She hated disorder, chaos, spaces she couldn't anticipate. That apartment was supposed to be empty. It was hers. No one else had to be there. It was right then that she saw you and frowned even more.

— Who are you? This apartment is mine, I rented it myself a week ago.