Mary Louise Emerson

For a moment, Alaura doesn’t move. Back pressing lightly against the wood door, the brass handle cool beneath her palm. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath through her nose, letting it fill her lungs, then pushes it out through parted lips.

When she opens them, the entrance hall stretches before her, bathed in the dim glow of the antique chandelier suspended from the center of the high ceiling. Its delicate glass arms shimmer faintly, casting slender ribbons of light and dark across the white walls, a stark contrast to the smooth black concrete flooring beneath her feet.

Her building’s quiet. Always is.

The three-story structure houses eight units, three on the first two floors, two on the third floor. A building designed not just for luxury, but privacy. For those who value discretion over grandeur. Where neighbors exist in passing glances, not introductions. A perfect sanctuary, but tonight, it feels more like an abyss.

To her left, three apartment doors stand in uniformity—Apartments 1, 2, and 3—their deep mahogany surfaces unmarked, undisturbed, each adorned with minimalist brass numbers that glint beneath the chandelier.

To her right, a flight of stairs ascending towards the second floor, their wooden steps worn smooth by years of footsteps. The banister bears a subdued sheen, the lacquer softened by time and use. Beneath the stairs, a row of brass mailboxes sit neatly in a recessed alcove, their surfaces polished from being rarely touched.

At the far end of the hallway, another black door stands reserved and unmoving, leading to the back parking lot behind the building. A dozen marked spaces, occupied by newer model sedans and compact SUVs, but nothing extravagant. No expensive sports cars, no valet. A reflection of the people who live here.

Alaura pushes off the door, heels clicking lightly against the smooth floor. After a few steps, she slips them off, curling her fingers around the delicate straps as she makes her way towards the stairs.

The silence stretches, pressing against her ears like static, amplifying the sound of her own breathing. In a way that feels heavier than usual.

Her hand trails along the railing as she climbs, the texture familiar but distant, as if she’s walking through a space she no longer recognizes. She takes each step slow, almost contemplative, giving her time to think, mind a tangled mess of the night.

Xander.

The creatures in the alley.

The way he moved, fought, killed.

The way he looked at her, like she was something he couldn’t quite figure out. Or maybe, something he wants to keep close for reasons he hasn’t even admitted to himself.

By the time she reaches the second floor, the weight that’s been bearing down on her all night, that dense, almost tangible force, is… gone. She hadn’t realized how suffocating it was until it disappeared. But the release doesn’t bring relief. If anything, it left something hollow. Something unsettled.

Continuing upward, the soft pads of her bare feet press into the wood as she ascends to the third floor. There are only two apartments at this level, one to the left, hers to the right.

Alaura’s fingers tighten around her keys as she stops in front her door, the metal edges digging into her skin. The sound of the lock turning is sharp, echoing far too loud for the hushed hallway.

With the tiniest creak, the door swings open and she steps through, letting the darkness inside greet her like an old friend.

As the door clicks close behind her, the realization she’s truly alone settles in. She drops her keys in the ceramic bowl on the console table near the door. Her shoes follow, landing in a careless heap by the entrance, forgotten as soon as they leave her grasp.

Standing in place for a moment, she stares out at the glittering skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the entire wall opposite the entrance. It’s warmer here, faint traces of coffee, pear, and green tea fill the air.

She blinks, bringing her focus back to the dark apartment. The walls surrounding her are made of the same black brick as the outside of the building. Unlike most high-end apartments filled with drywall and artificial textures, this place exposes its bones. The smooth white walls enclosing the bathroom and closet are the only exception—self-contained spaces that are almost out of place against the rawness of the rest of the studio.

Alaura finally reaches for the switch. Overhead, the lights click on one by one, casting gold across the smooth black concrete floors. Pushing forward, she steps out of the entryway and into the vast, open heart of the apartment. The first few steps are slow, soundless, the cold spreading bumps across her skin.

Turning to her left, she walks past a long black wood dining table set beneath pendant lights, its sheer size an unexpected feature in a studio apartment. Built to seat eight—an odd addition for someone who lives alone. Even if she rarely uses it anymore, the table remains, waiting like a carefully set stage.

Her feet stop in the kitchen, an uninterrupted expanse where another apartment would have been.  Its presence an elegant yet functional extension of the studio’s design. High-end stainless-steel appliances gleam under the soft recessed lighting, their smooth surfaces pristine. White marble countertops and white cabinets line the wall, creating depth against the black bricks.

At the kitchen’s center, a large island dominates the space, its white marble surface flawless. Surrounded by a few white cushioned barstools tucked neatly underneath. A deep steel sink is set into the center, sleek and minimal.

She should go straight to bed. Should let the heaviness in her limbs drag her under, let sleep dull the razor-edges clawing at her thoughts.

But instead, she stands at the island. Her fingers tracing idle, absentminded patterns over the naturally occurring designs of the marble. Eyes beginning to unfocus as her mind sinks deeper.

Two more of those creatures. She encountered two more of them.

Why them?

Why tonight?

It’s been weeks since her last confrontation with those things. Since she forced herself to believe they are nothing more than a rare, unfortunate anomaly in a world that otherwise makes sense.

And then there’s Xander.

That silent, involuntary pulse of terror she sent into the night and the fact that he answered. No hesitation. No delay. In a matter of seconds, he found her and saved her.

Then there’s the part she hates most. She was caught off guard.

Her jaw tightens as her fingers curl into fists against the marble. Nails pressing into her palms, disappointment heavy in her frown lines. She should’ve been prepared. But she wasn’t.

The shame stung. Not because she’d been weak. But because she allowed herself to believe the danger was gone. That the monsters had been buried with the past.

Alaura rolls her shoulders back, forcing her spine straight, exhaling the frustration in a long, controlled breath. But it doesn’t leave her. It simmers beneath her skin. She can’t keep pushing aside the questions she’s not ready to ask. Or the answers she’s not ready to hear.

It all comes back to one thing—what she’s been avoiding since the funeral. The box. The one she found in her mother’s home, buried deep in a place that doesn’t make sense, hidden like a secret waiting to be uncovered. Just the thought of it makes her stomach knot.

For weeks, she left it untouched, sitting in the same place she set it down after her last run-in. Seven weeks ago. Seven weeks of pretending it doesn’t exist.

But now? Now, she knows she can’t ignore it any longer.

Still, that truth can wait until tomorrow.

Exhaustion pulls at her bones, dragging her down, deeper, heavier. With a sigh, she pushes off the island, her body leaden as she makes her way through the open door to the right of the entrance, the bathroom. An oasis of white with a garden tub and a marble vanity.

She peels off her dress, letting it puddle around her ankles. The moment her feet touch the chilled porcelain of the tub, she reaches for the temperature dial, turning it just past hot. Steam rises around her in thick tendrils, wrapping her in its heat as the water cascades down her skin. Letting it wash away the scent of blood, the club, the alley, the memory of golden eyes and whispered warnings.

After drying off, Alaura enters a door nestled between the tub and sink, leading to her walk-in closet. A space curated with precise, almost clinical intent. Rows of designer clothes hang in perfect symmetry, a collection of shoes, handbags, and jewelry line the interior like a showroom where everything has its place. A wardrobe built not just for function but presentation.

Changing into a black polka dot matching pj set, she exits back into the main living space.  Just beyond the white walls is the bedroom. A large, modern frame with a dark upholstered headboard is pressed against the brick wall, its crisp white sheets neatly smoothed, untouched by sleep. Two black nightstands flank either side, each topped with a matching lamp that casts a soft, ambient glow.

When she finally climbs into bed, the sheets cool against her bare skin, she lies in the dark with her eyes closed. Her mind doesn’t quiet. Not even a little.  But sleep takes her anyway.