Amelia never heard the car. The soft hum of the engine was drowned out by the gentle hiss of rain against the rooftop. Inside the cottage, she'd just boiled water for tea, her fingers wrapped around the chipped handle of the old mug Frederick had insisted on sending with her belongings which turned out to be one of the few signs he still cared, even after everything. Her back was to the door, slippers padding softly on the floorboards as she moved around the small kitchen, unaware that just feet away, someone had killed the engine, stepped out, and crept toward her safe house like a shadow.The figure moved with calculated precision, dressed in dark layers, gloved hands steady, ear tuned to every creak of the wood. In the crook of one arm, a phone lit the gloom. “She’s here. Alone,” he murmured into it, voice low, emotionless. No names. No commands. Just confirmation. Then silence.The lock twisted quietly. Not loud enough to echo. Not loud enough to alert her. The front door creaked
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