Atlanta, Georgia – 6:58 PM


Talia didn’t go into the office. She spent the entire day pacing her home, phone in hand, reading and re-reading every article she could find on Isaiah Reed’s death. The police called it accidental. Overdose. But there were holes in the timeline—and Marcus’s presence in that hotel was one too many coincidences.


She had questions.


And now… she had company.


At exactly 7:00 PM, the doorbell rang.


Talia opened the door to find her best friend, Simone Bennett, standing on the porch with a bottle of red wine and a look of concern.


“You ghosted me all day,” Simone said, brushing past her into the foyer. “And your texts were short. One-word answers. That’s a code red.”


Talia closed the door slowly. “Simone, do you know Kenyatta Briggs?”


Simone paused in the middle of shrugging off her coat. “You mean that slick real estate developer that’s always on Channel 2 trying to sell condos to gentrifiers? Yeah. Why?”


“He and Marcus were in Miami together when a man died. Isaiah Reed.”


Simone’s brows shot up. “Wait, that Isaiah? The artist?”


“You knew him?”


Simone nodded slowly, face darkening. “He was dating my cousin Kori for a while. Talented. Kind of reckless, but not suicidal.”


Talia felt a chill. “Do you think Marcus could’ve—?”


“I don’t know,” Simone cut in. “But if that message you got is real, you’re in danger. And you need to stop sleeping next to that man until you know what’s going on.”


As if on cue, Talia’s phone buzzed again.


Unknown Number: You’re not alone tonight. Check the upstairs hallway camera.


Talia’s breath caught. She bolted for the tablet mounted on the wall—the security hub for the house.


She tapped into the hallway feed. Her blood ran cold.


There, in the upstairs hallway, was a figure. Hooded. Gloved. Facing the bedroom door. Watching it.


Simone grabbed her wrist. “Talia—who the hell is that?”


“I don’t know. I locked all the doors.”


“Apparently not all of them.”


A sound echoed above them. A soft creak.


Then footsteps.


Simone didn’t wait—she snatched her purse and pulled out a small silver pistol. “Get behind me.”


Talia’s voice trembled. “You carry a gun now?”


“Girl, I’m a Black woman in Atlanta. Of course I carry a gun.”


They crept toward the stairs. Every second stretched out like hours. But when they reached the top…


The hallway was empty.


No intruder.


No sign of forced entry.


Just the camera—blinking steadily.


Then Talia’s phone buzzed again.


Unknown Number: He’s watching both of us now. You have 48 hours. Don’t trust Marcus. And don’t go to the police.


Talia's knees buckled slightly.


Simone caught her. “Okay, now it’s real.”


Talia looked into her friend’s eyes.


“I think we just stepped into something bigger than either of us could’ve imagined.”