The photograph glowed on Amara’s screen like a wound. Her reflection stared back at her from behind the glass — eyes wide, shoulders tense, fear blooming in the silence. The picture was recent. Too recent. Same clothes. Same posture. Same lighting.

Someone had taken that photo minutes ago.

Her apartment suddenly felt smaller, every sound magnified. The hum of the refrigerator, the soft creak of the ceiling — all of it pressed against her skin.

She forced herself to move, inch by inch, checking the corners, the curtains, the balcony. Nothing. Just the city beyond the glass, indifferent and glittering.

But her chest wouldn’t loosen.

She returned to the table,...