Amelia tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel as she drove home, AC/DC’s “Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution” blasting through the speakers. She’d just finished a grocery run—shampoo, conditioner, crisps, cat food, breakfast bars, orange juice, milk. A small indulgence, too, a new book tucked into the bag: *The Maze Runner*, she thought she remembered the title.
Parking in her assigned spot, she retrieved the bags from the trunk and locked the car. Inside her apartment, she unpacked the groceries, restocking shelves and feeding Alaska, her sleek Turkish Angora. She set the new book aside, promising herself a quiet morning with it. Sinking onto the couch, she flipped on the TV, resuming her *Supernatural* marathon. Moving to New York hadn’t been her best idea. The lack of BBC programming meant *Sherlock* and *Doctor Who* were relegated to online streaming.
Loneliness had become a constant companion. She’d quit her job to care for her ailing mother, who’d succumbed quickly after Amelia’s arrival. Her closest friend had relocated for work, the distance rendering their Skype calls infrequent and strained. Even during those calls, Amelia masked her solitude, refusing to admit how deeply she felt the ache of isolation.
She filled her days with books, online browsing, TV, eating, bathing, and sleeping. Working from home offered little social interaction. Her social life had dwindled to almost nothing, and Alaska was the sole recipient of her voice.
Yet, she didn’t resent it. She had friends, savings, and the inheritance her mother left. But she knew the money wouldn’t last. A stable job was needed, and needed soon. She glanced at her laptop on the coffee table. *I should probably start looking,* she thought. *Fuck it, I’ll check tomorrow.*
Two hours later, she switched off the TV and headed upstairs. She plugged her phone into the charger and slipped into bed, falling asleep almost instantly.
Her escape into slumber was short-lived. An hour later, a loud bang jolted her awake. She initially suspected Alaska had knocked something off the kitchen counter, but a heavy weight pinned the blanket to her legs. Looking down, she saw Alaska, eyes wide with fear. The cat's gaze followed hers toward the source of the noise.
Slowly, Amelia crept down the stairs, her footsteps silent. Peeking around the kitchen door, she saw a man rising from the floor, groaning in pain. Moonlight streaming through the window glinted off the metal of his armor. *Armor?*
She edged further into the room, fear overriding caution. She hadn’t considered *why* he wore armor, hadn’t thought about potential danger.
But he looked broken, in pain. The sight compelled her to act while he was still vulnerable.
She decided to throw a punch, hoping to knock him out before he regained his strength, then call the police. But he turned, blocking her attack with ease, forcing her back a step.
She tried to project an air of confidence, remembering years-old boxing lessons. But the skills were rusty, the muscle memory faint. She drew her pocket knife—a gift from Evan last year—and leveled it at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"