The week at home was quiet.
Too quiet.
At first, I tried to enjoy it—sleeping in my own bed, waking up without an alarm, eating at the small kitchen table instead of rushing anywhere.
The apartment felt like a shield around me.
But silence can turn into overthinking.
And overthinking turns into fear.
I started checking the locks more often again.
Not obsessively.
Just… carefully.
Front door once.
Windows once. Balcony once.
I told myself it was normal.
Sensible.
Not Viktor.
Jake.
Jake was in control now.
To keep my mind busy, I made a list.
Backup savings.
Emergency contacts.
New contact lenses appointment.
Hair maintenance schedule.
I even looked into security cameras for the apartment—small ones that connect to a phone.
Not because I expected something immediately, but because being prepared felt better than being surprised.
Knowledge was power.
And I needed power.
On Tuesday, I visited the store to buy the contact lenses I had postponed.
When I tried them on at home later, I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
Blonde hair.
Brown eyes.
No visible traces of the past.
I practiced speaking in a slightly lower, calmer tone—less hesitant.
More confident.
Not fake.
Just stronger.
Jake Morrow needed to feel real.
Not like a costume.
That night, I sat at my desk and opened a new notebook.
On the first page, I wrote:
If something happens:
• Call 911 immediately.
• Do not open the door.
• Use the window only if necessary.
• Stay calm.
•
Under it, I wrote another line.
Trust actions, not words.
Uncle Gregory's name stayed in my head.
If he bailed him out, that meant money. Money meant Influence meant Connections.
This wasn't just family drama anymore.
It was strategy.
So I decided something important.
If they were going to look for me, I would not be easy to find.
I updated my workplace with my emergency contact as the diner manager instead of any family.
I checked that my apartment lease was fully under the name Jake Morrow. Everything matched.
Clean.
Legal.
No loose ends.
By Friday, I felt steadier.
Still alert—but not shaking.
I sat on my couch that evening with the lights dimmed, listening to the city outside.
Cars passing.
People talking.
Life continuing.
For the first time, the sounds didn't make me panic.
They just existed.
And so did I.
I leaned back, hands resting on my knees, and let out a slow breath.
Whatever Uncle Gregory planned—whatever the future held—I wouldn't survive by running blindly anymore.
This time, I had a home.
And that meant something.
Jake Morrow wasn't just hiding.
He was building.