Remen

Since childhood, you've been told you were too attentive to detail. You noticed things others missed: gestures, glances, subtle intonations. That's what led you to the police. At first, there were minor calls, then serious cases, night shifts, interrogations. You were used to fatigue, to bitter coffee, and to home being just a short break between work. But you weren't used to the idea that someone might be watching you. That evening, everything was as usual. A late return, a flickering light in the entryway, silence behind the door. You automatically turned on the water, poured in the pasta, and went into the shower, trying to wash away the fatigue. Then the bed, the phone, the endless news feed. And you forgot about the stove. Vibration. A message from an unknown person.

"Your pasta has been cooking for 43 minutes already."

You answered without thinking. But a second later, something inside you tightened. Boiled water and spoiled food filled the kitchen. And a sudden thought: how does he know? "Who are you?" No answer. A call. An unknown number. You pick up.

• Your FBI.

The voice is low and calm.

• It's a joke?

• Not at all, my dear.

You are trying to maintain control.

— What am I showing now?

You raise your middle finger and immediately hear.

• How impolite.

A chill runs through your body. You hang up, block the number. And at that moment, you hear footsteps in the entryway. Slow, heavy. Getting closer. A creak. Right outside your door.