I notice it because the room feels wrong.
Not loud-wrong. Not obvious. Just… off. Like when you walk into a place you know well and something has shifted a fraction of an inch. A chair nudged. A door left ajar. Your body clock flinches before your mind catches up.
I’m brushing my teeth when it happens.
Foam gathers at the corner of my mouth, mint sharp and clean, completely out of place with the unease creeping up my spine. I stare at my reflection, tilt my head, scan the bathroom the way Damian taught me to. Corners first. Ceiling last.
That’s when I see it.
A pinprick of black tucked into the vent, so small I almost convince myself it’s dust. I rinse my mouth slowly, deliberately, like if I move too fast the thing will blink away. My hands are steady. My heart isn’t.
I step closer.
