“Yes, it is,” the man growls, sounding impatient. “So please open the door.”
Something quivers through me, a warning firing in my mind, pleading with me not to open the door, not to even think about opening the door.
“Where’s the regular super?” I ask, trying to stop my voice from trembling.
Fear is spiking through me with more and more intensity each moment. I don’t know if it’s a rational fear, or if maybe I’m going a little crazy.
All I know for sure is that the man on the other side of the door is causing my warning signals to fire urgently through my mind, blaring loudly, deafening.
“He’s on a break,” a second man snarls.
He, he, he.
But Rose is a woman.
“Oh,” I say, trying to remember where I left my cellphone.
I think it’s on my bedside table, but I was so caught up in playing with Rebel that I can’t remember. I start to back away from the door as slowly as I can, wincing every time my footsteps cause the floorboards to whine and creak.
An unfair and cruel sentiment rises inside of me with each whining noise.
This wouldn’t happen if you were skinny, an inner voice cuts.
I hate it. I push it down.
It’s not fair that even now when everything inside of me should be focused on the possible danger of these strange, suspicious men, that my mind would still toss up such self-hate.
“Miss?” the first man calls and then raises his voice even louder. “Miss, are you there?”
“Fuck this,” a second man snarls.
I can’t tell if I scream or if the door bashes inward first, or at the same time. But suddenly the air is alive with noise, my screams rising over the wooden cracking of the door, the whining of the hinges as they thunder inwards and the first man steps into my apartment.
Rebel stands in front of me, her tiny tail pricked up aggressively, barking at the men in the deepest voice she can muster.
The men are dressed from head to foot in black, hoodies and jeans, and chunky boots. They’ve got hoods pulled over their heads, right down to their eyes, and ski scarves pulled up over their noses.
Only their eyes are visible, flinty, watching my every movement as though I’m an animal and they’re judging the best way to trap me.
Then the man in front – tall, thick, clearly the leader – takes a coil of wire from his pocket.
It’s the matter of fact way he does it that sends me hurtling to the bedroom. He removes it calmly, as though the destination of wrapping it around my throat and choking the life out of me has already been reached, and all the struggle in between is just empty noise.
I run to the bedroom, to the bedside table.
Yes, my phone is here.
I grab it and fumble for the Emergency Services icon.
Rebel has leaped onto the bed, as though by gaining a few feet in height she can better intimidate the men. She lets loose with a series of frantic yaps, filling the room with the noise, over and over.
The first man enters the room slowly. His scarf twitches. I think he’s smiling.
He’s already uncoiled the wire at some point between the entrance and the bedroom, holding two wooden grips in each gloved hand now, approaching me inch by torturous inch.
“Don’t fight it,” he says. “It’s already over.”
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s a man in my—”
The man leaps forward like a force of nature, aiming the wire at my neck, clearly intending to wrap it around me and choke me. Rebel lets out a scratchy, cough-like yap and then leaps from the bed, clamping her tiny jaw around the man’s calf muscle.
“Ah, little shit,” he growls and then turns as if to kick my tiny fragile dog with his boot.
I drop my phone, instinctively reaching out for Rebel. One swipe of his leg and this man could crush her tiny fragile skull.
“Stop.”
The voice isn’t loud, but it’s full of power, the sort of voice that makes people listen despite what they’re doing. The man pauses and I take my chance, darting forward and grabbing Rebel, lifting her off the ground and cradling her trembling, anxious body to my chest.
“Stop now, or I’ll cut this bastard open. That’s your final warning.”
I look past the masked man to the doorway.
Jett.
He’s still wearing his tuxedo, his face a mask of calm control.
He’s got the second masked man’s arm twisted up behind his back and a long, nasty looking blade primed less than an inch from his throat, gripping it tightly so that his forearm muscles bulge even in the tuxedo jacket. It’s easy to imagine him driving the blade with all the giant power of his body, to imagine the destruction it would cause on the masked man.
“Fuck,” the first masked man sighs, turning slowly.