Chapter 3
The morning sun filtered softly through the windows, washing the living room in a gentle gold that glimmered against the hardwood floors. Soren stood in the kitchen, hands busy with a damp cloth as he wiped down the counters for the third time that morning. Dominic had left early, as he usually did, giving Soren a lingering kiss goodbye and a whispered promise to come home safe. Soren had smiled, touched his cheek, and told him to take care. Then the door shut, and the silence settled.
Soren preferred silence. It gave him space to think, to breathe. But now, it felt different. He looked over the clean kitchen once more and moved to the dining area. The small vase of wildflowers on the table had wilted overnight, their yellow petals sagging like tired eyelids. He discarded them gently and made a mental note to pick some fresh ones later.
Next came the laundry. He moved with practiced efficiency—sorting, folding, ironing. Each movement was purposeful, the motions as rhythmic and disciplined as a martial kata. As the washer hummed, he dusted the bookshelves, fluffed the pillows, swept the floor, and disinfected every knob and handle. By midday, the entire house gleamed with meticulous care.
When the clock hit noon, Soren made his way to the kitchen and opened the fridge. His brows furrowed.
Soren
(muttering) Nothing again…
The shelves were almost bare—half a tomato, a bottle of milk near expiration, and two eggs that he doubted were still good. Dominic had insisted they go shopping together the week before, but things had come up. As always.
Soren sighed and reached for a pan. He scrambled the eggs, diced the tomato, and made a simple sandwich with the last slice of bread. He sat alone by the kitchen window, watching birds hop along the fence as he ate.
After washing the dishes, he grabbed his coat and scarf. The grocery store wasn’t far, just a fifteen-minute walk down the neighborhood road. He liked walking—especially on days when the sky was clear, and the breeze smelled faintly of leaves and fresh earth.
Locking the door behind him, Soren walked past Catherine’s house, nodding politely at her empty porch swing. He took the same familiar sidewalk route, boots scuffing softly against the pavement. The streets were calm, the hum of daily life gentle and uneventful.
But something prickled at the back of his neck.
He slowed at the corner, eyes casually scanning the area. Parked across the street, about half a block behind him, was a black car. Same model. Same tinted windows. The same one he had seen yesterday.
He kept walking, adjusting the strap of his bag as if nothing was out of the ordinary. But his mind sharpened, heart slowing into a practiced rhythm. He counted his steps, noted every exit point, every alley, every passerby.
By the time he reached the grocery store, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the taller buildings, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. He pushed open the glass door, nodding politely to the cashier as the bell overhead chimed.
He took a basket and moved with ease through the aisles. Bread, vegetables, fresh herbs, salmon, cream, and spices. Something special. A creamy garlic salmon pasta—Dominic’s favorite.
As he passed the freezer section, something caught his eye.
Standing near the end of the aisle, pretending to study the cereal shelf. Too still. Clothes too neutral. Eyes not reading the boxes—eyes watching.
Soren continued walking, not giving the man any indication he’d noticed.
Another aisle. A different man. Same posture. Different shelf.
And another, near the bakery. Loitering.
Soren's fingers curled around the basket handle.
And he had a feeling this time—they wouldn’t just be watching for long.
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