The morning sun peeked through the half-drawn curtains, streaking warm light across the tiled floor of Ryan’s apartment. Cynthia stirred on the couch, a soft yawn escaping her lips as she stretched out, still wrapped in the fluffy throw blanket her brother had handed her the night before.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the stillness.

Too still.

She sat up, rubbing her temple. The apartment was eerily quiet—no sounds from the kitchen, no footsteps, no scent of Ryan’s usual strong coffee. The last thing she remembered was him kissing her forehead, telling her to rest while he finished something in the other room.

Now, he was gone.

“Ryan?”...