With a groan, I open the door to my small apartment. The four flights of stairs to even get to my door drained the rest of my energy completely. I am so ready for my bed right now. But the moment I enter I have an unsettling feeling. I turn on the lights before I can properly think about it.

I tilt my head a little to the side, point my nose a little up, and take a deep breath. It smells of dried and burnt herbs, and a hint of something flowery. I don't really know what different flowers smell like, but it does smell like some kind of flower.

I'm so used to bad smells, the stench of death and decay that I don't really smell it anymore as long as it's not overwhelming. But it's different with pleasant smells – or the smell of alcohol. There is just something sour about it that tickles my nose.

But the scent I am confronted with isn't alcohol. It's… I don't really know. As silent as possible I close my door, leaving it unlocked in case I need to run from whatever might be hiding in my apartment. I remember I just unlocked it to enter, so whoever got inside didn't use the door. Or had a key. Both options are equally unsettling.

I walk down the corridor leading me away from the front door and the hall tree, praying that the old wooden floor won't give away my position. My first stop is the kitchen to the left, connected to the corridor with a rather wide, old, wooden arch. It's a very small kitchen containing only the most necessary things.

There's an old cabinet on the right wall, next to it a kitchen counter and the sink. Ahead is a small window, the black, heavy curtains are drawn. I always make sure to leave my house secured. There's no way of knowing how long I'll be gone and if the black fog hits in my absence. It's not like I would be in danger, but the fog could linger in an enclosed space. Also, cleaning up after the fog is a pain in the ass. I know that once I open these curtains, I'll have to scrub my windows clean of the black tar.

To my left is a small light switch I flick on, and the lamp hanging in the middle of the kitchen turns on. It gives light to the small table under the window, barely big enough to fit two chairs. However, whoever sits on the left one needs to squeeze between the wall and the table. It is a very narrow room, but it's big enough for me. It's not like I have visitors over.

A few shelves and a cabinet hang on the left wall and in a little nook sits the stove. The kitchen is so narrow that I only have to turn on my heels to switch from the counter to the stove, and I like it that way. I feel safe in a small space with little possibility to hide.

I don't need to enter the kitchen to know that no one's here. It's as empty as can be. So I turn around, facing back into the corridor, and flick on the light of the bathroom before I open the door slowly. This room is even smaller, there is nothing more but a toilet, a sink and a mirror, and a shower. I didn't even have enough space for a proper cabinet. There is only a shelf above the toilet for some spare paper rolls. The rest of the bathroom items are stored in a dresser out in the corridor.

I leave the door open and move further down the corridor, turning to the left to open the door to the living room rather slowly. This door has a bad habit of squeaking that persists no matter how often I oil the hinges. I stopped caring, but right now I hate this door. I slip my hand in to turn on the light and only then do I open the door fully.

There's no one here either. Just my very old but comfy sofa, the coffee table, and an old music box in the back of this small room, and a small dining table and a couple of chairs right next to the door, with too many bookshelves covering the walls wherever there isn't a window. Oh, and my cactus, sitting right on top of the dining table.

This leaves only two options: Either someone's in my room, or gone already. At this point, I hope whoever was here is gone. And stays gone. With an open window, I could just simply assume that the smell comes from outside, but if the curtains keep away the fog, they sure as hell keep away random scents.

I hesitate to open the door to my bedroom. What do I do if there's really someone inside? Just bolt it? Abandon my home for another three or four hours? It's not like the watchers would help someone like me, and the last thing I want to do today is return to Thayer. He would take care of it, but at what cost?

No. I would need to head back to the station and wait for Thomas, maybe collect one or two others from the station to come back here and assess the damage and secure my home. Maybe even confront the intruder if he doesn't leave during my absence. Though I doubt anyone would stick around.

I take a deep breath, push down the door handle, and give the door a push. It swings open and immediately sends a cold shiver down my spine. The light's turned on. But that's it. My bedroom is as empty as can be. Did I forget to turn off the lights? No, it can't be. Someone was here.

And it becomes evident the moment I let my eyes wander. Nothing is out of place, no one has gone through my room searching for valuables, but there's a single blue flower in a very simple but elegant small glass vase, with an envelope leaned against it.

I'm frozen in place. Did Thayer arrange for this? Why should he, out of the blue? He never was the type and I can't recall saying anything. Then again, I was wasted for good, high on whatever we smoked and absolutely clouded by whatever incense he burnt in his stupid bedroom. Who knows what I may have said? Not me, apparently.

For fuck's sake, Eon. That's one way to get yourself killed; by a surprise heart attack or whatever. The tension fades from my shoulder, my whole body slumps. I didn't even realize how alert I've been up till now. I turn on my heels to head back to the front door, turning off all the lights on my way. I get out of my shoes, hang my suit jacket on one of the hangers, and finally, I lock the door.

Great, now I'm on edge again. There is no imminent danger but I'm stuck with the knowledge that someone had gained access to my apartment somehow. The black curtains are all in place, the windows seem to be locked, the door was locked… How? Why today? Couldn't they break in on any other day? It can never be easy, can it now?

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I hate this. I hate everything about this day. I just want it to be over, but the most infuriating thing is that the day only just started. Even if I find sleep it's still going to be the same day once I wake up. I hear myself swearing and cussing under my breath, almost inaudible. But despite everything, I'm too exhausted to really be upset about it. I can talk my thoughts into rage, but my outside is just worn down.

There are two sides at the moment, me who wants to swear and cuss and damn this whole city, and me who is tired of the other me and just wants to sleep.

I return to my room, hesitant still. There's nothing here, Eon. You're fine. You got a delivery, nothing was stolen. No mess was made. Whoever it was, they had good intentions. Calm down. Calm down.

I sit down on my bed and eye the envelope for a moment. I should read it. I don't know if I want to read it. I take it between my fingers, give it a glance-over, then drop it next to me and get up again. I may be exhausted, but not enough to sleep in my clothes, so I undress down to my underwear. The suit gets neatly folded and placed on the small dresser, I'll need to return it to the station later. I turn on the bedside lamp and turn off the main light in return, then I finally get into my bed.

There it is. This envelop. Mocking me and my curiosity. I want to ignore it, but I can't. I need to know. So I open it, and I am met with very sophisticated handwriting. This is not Thayer as made clear by the first three words… I tense up again.

"Good morning, Sunshine."

Yeah, no. I'm not doing this. I stuff the letter back into the envelope and throw it on my bedside table, turning off the light for good. Who does this goddamn thief think he is? Well, at least I don't have to wonder anymore how he gained entry. Not that I would know how exactly, but I know he can get into high-security vaults. So what even is my old wooden door if not a cakewalk?

I try to sleep, but Father sleep avoids me despite my exhaustion. There's too much in my head, too many thoughts, unexplainably loud. I've had many nights like this, lying awake, tossing and turning, trying to shush my mind. It was bad when I still was a child.

My mom once told me that ever since my father didn't return from work, I was plagued by my imagination. I don't remember when it started, but I remember how it's been part of my life for a long time. It became better with the years, vanished with the numbness of my previous job, but has slowly returned over the past few years.

I don't know if it's a good sign, a sign that my mind is processing, trying to juggle my emotions and experiences, but it doesn't feel like a good thing. It feels awful, terrifying even. As a child I would lay awake, imagining how I'd lose my mother. I saw her die so many times, cried so many tears of loss. And sometimes I was paralyzed. I knew I would get up in the morning and everything would be fine, but the fear didn't care.

This fear showed me the most gruesome ways to lose her. From sickness to burning, even slaughter. I imagined how I'd get up in the morning and enter the kitchen just to find her mutilated body, her chopped-off limbs, her abused body, her empty eyes looking at me... with an unsettling smile on her lips. And no matter how many times I woke up in the morning and was met with normalcy, these imaginations only left me after her cold and dead body had found its way onto my autopsy table.

I never saw her again when met with these night terrors of my vivid mind. And soon, it all stopped. But now I'm about to plumage down yet into another imagination I can neither stop nor control. What if I get back to the station later just to be told that Thomas went MIA? What if one fine day, it becomes my job to attend to his body at a crime scene? What if I'm ever in charge of cleaning a scene of a victim I care about?

But these thoughts don't stop there, no, no… They never do. They have to plague me with the most disturbing sights I can imagine. What if it's not just Thomas but his wife and kid as well? What if…

I sit up, my throat dry, my eyes watery. I don't want these thoughts, these images, so real that the only thing that keeps me from believing them is my sanity, my common sense. I turn on the light and with a sigh I take the envelope.

Maybe it will take my mind off these thoughts. Maybe it will give me something else to focus on. So I read.

"Good morning, Sunshine.

I'm not going to tell you to not be alert by my break and entry, I know you are.

So here's a little something to make up for it. I couldn't help but notice your graceful care when tending to the Lane's artificial flowers, so here's one for you. And don't tell me I misinterpreted your expression. You may be tough to read sometimes, but occasionally, you're as easy as an open book.

There's just something special about a person looking at art and acknowledging it as such. The wealthy have these bouquets made as a status symbol, they don't look at their blossom in such a soft way. I doubt they even look at their belongings at all. It's just there to fill the space and uphold their extravagant living style, not something to admire for its beauty.

Shame, really, but that's why this flower is yours to keep. And don't worry about accidentally killing it, it is artificial after all. May go well next to your cactus. And no, I didn't write this letter on the spot, I know what your apartment looks like. You shouldn't worry about it, but I know you will.

Get some rest, Sunshine. You'll need it. There's a job coming your way that will take a toll on you for a whole other reason than today. I'll see you then. Maybe.

Ps: The flower is called chrysanthemum. I know you know shit about flowers so I felt obligated to let you know."

It's funny, I can literally hear the tone of his voice in my head, that smug face, the smirk… The chuckle at the end. Of course, I know nothing about flowers. This whole damn city doesn't know shit about flowers – and yet I imagine he found it amusing to rub it under my nose.

My eyes wander; for the first time, I'm looking at this thing properly. I can't deny its beauty, the delicate petals, the shades of blue that feel calming in a weird way. It's just a single flower but it is so giving. It paints a picture of better times, when fields were still green, and flowers still had a scent. All we have now are rotten trees, barren land, and weeds that not even fire can kill.

Not that there aren't any facilities cultivating flora and fauna, they have to exist to feed the people, but they aren't for personal possession. The arch holds a lot of seeds locked up in hopes that they can be replanted once our Earth recovers. But I doubt human mankind will still be around by then. But it's the thought that counts, isn't it? The belief that it can and eventually will get better. A sliver of hope – not for our generations, but the ones that have yet to be born.

I put the letter back on my nightstand, it sure took my thoughts off from the previous downward spiral, but now I'm concerned for another reason. He's been here before. Or he has been watching me. Or maybe not him specifically, but a Shadow did for sure. Who knows how their network runs. And while I get the feeling that he doesn't like people like Thayer much, I can't tell if he's genuine.

What if this all is just a façade? How can I be sure that he is not secretly somehow connected to Thayer on a level that could lead to my demise? What if I'm being tested? What if Thayer finally sent someone my way in hopes I'll build enough trust to spill my secrets, my thoughts, my feelings? What if everything I entrust to the Shadow finds its way to the almighty Bear?

I don't own much, I don't have dark secrets, but I lock myself up pretty well. The reason I haven't lost myself to Thayer yet is because I know who I am, with a healthy sense of self-preservation. But if he learns what my mind looks like I'll become wax in his hands. Allow him to manipulate me psychologically even more, and I may crumble. I am brutally aware of it.

I cannot trust. If I do, it might be the end of me.