Beep-beep-beep-beep! It was 6:00 AM, and the digital clock was screaming like it always did.
I groaned, slapping it silent before it woke Uncle Rafael. The man worked double shifts at Hendrix Factory six days a week. The least I could do was let him sleep an extra hour.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling of our apartment on Calloway Street, watching the pale grey light of early morning bleed through the thin curtains. Somewhere outside a dog was barking. A car backfired two blocks away. The familiar smell of damp walls and Mrs. Petrov's cabbage soup from the apartment below drifted through the gaps in the floorboards.
This was Varro District. The part of New York the glossy magazines never photographed. No skyline shots. No tourist maps. Just crumbling brownstones, broken streetlights and people who worked themselves to the bone just to stay exactly where they were.
Home.
I pulled myself out of bed and ran to the bathroom, avoiding the third floorboard that creaked loud enough to wake the dead. The mirror above the sink was small and spotted with age. I looked at my reflection — wavy blonde hair tangled from sleep, warm brown eyes still heavy with exhaustion, the oversized college hoodie I'd been wearing since freshman year hanging off one shoulder.
Twenty two years old and already tired.
"You're going somewhere Elena." Uncle Rafael's voice lived permanently in the back of my head. "You're not staying in Varro District forever. You hear me?"
I heard him. I always heard him.
I splashed cold water on my face and got to work.
By 6:15 AM I was behind the counter at Milo's Diner, two blocks from our apartment. The breakfast rush hadn't hit yet but Milo liked his staff early. He was already in the kitchen, a short round man with a grey mustache and permanently flour dusted apron, humming something off key to the radio.
"Morning Elena." He didn't look up from the eggs he was cracking. "Coffee's fresh."
"Morning Milo." I tied my apron and grabbed the coffee pot, moving automatically through the familiar motions. Wipe down the counter. Set the condiments. Check the napkin holders.
I'd been working at Milo's since I was nineteen. Three years of early mornings and tired feet and coffee stained uniforms. The tips were decent enough to cover my textbooks and help Uncle Rafael with rent. It wasn't glamorous but it was honest.
The bell above the door chimed and the first customers of the morning shuffled in — Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski from the building next to ours, both bundled in coats despite it being September. I smiled and reached for two mugs before they even sat down.
"The usual?"
"Bless you child." Mrs. Kowalski patted my hand as she settled into the booth.
The morning moved the way mornings always did at Milo's. Fast and loud and smelling of bacon grease and strong coffee. By 8 AM every booth was filled. By 9 AM my feet already ached. By 10 AM the rush died down and I finally exhaled.
I was wiping down the last booth when Jasmine burst through the door.
"ELENA RIVERA!!!." She announced herself like she always did — loud, breathless and grinning like she'd just won something. She was wearing a yellow jacket that had absolutely no business being that bright at ten in the morning, and her braids were piled high on her head.
"Jazz." I laughed despite myself. "Inside voice. Please."
"I don't have one and you know this." She slid onto a barstool and leaned across the counter. "Okay so listen. You know that empty apartment on the third floor? 3B? The one that's been vacant since old Mr. Cunningham moved to his daughter's place in Queens?"
I nodded slowly, already suspicious. Jazz only had that look on her face when something was happening.
"Someone moved in last night." She dropped the words like a bomb. "And Elena." She grabbed my wrist. "I saw him this morning."
"Him."
"HIM." She widened her eyes meaningfully. "As in — tall, dark, built like a sin and a prayer combined, carrying one duffel bag like he owns the entire building even though he clearly just got there—"
"Jazz—"
"I said what I said." She released my wrist and sat back. "Apartment 3B. New neighbor. Dangerous looking. And I mean dangerous in the way that makes you want to do something stupid."
I rolled my eyes and went back to wiping the counter. "You say that about everyone."
"I say that about no one." She pointed at me seriously. "I'm telling you Elena. This one is different."
I didn't think much of it then.
I should have.
The rest of my day dissolved the way ordinary days do — lectures, textbooks, the walk home with my bag cutting into my shoulder. By evening Calloway Street was settling into its usual noise. I barely noticed.
What I noticed was him.
Standing outside the building. One shoulder against the brick wall, arms folded, head slightly bowed. Tall. Dark. Disturbingly still. He wore a plain grey shirt like a man with nothing to prove and everything to hide.
His eyes lifted the moment I stepped onto the street.
I dropped my gaze and walked faster.
I was halfway up the stairwell when my sneaker caught the broken step and the world tilted. My bag flew. I grabbed at nothing—
Two hands caught me.
Suddenly I was against the wall. His body against mine. One hand gripping my waist, the other braced beside my head. His face inches away. Close enough to see it — a scar, thin and deliberate, slicing through his left eyebrow and curving beneath his left eye.
"Careful." His voice was barely a whisper against my temple. "A girl like you shouldn't be falling for men like me."
Then he was gone. Climbing the stairs. Unhurried.
Apartment 3B clicked shut.
I stood there pressing my hand against the wall where his had been.
Still warm.
"Who are you?"