Did You Meet Her?

She grabbed the cleaning brush, this time clutching it tightly to her chest. Her breath hitched as she stepped forward, slowly matching every sound with cautious steps. Though her hands trembled, she swallowed hard, trying to shove her fear aside. Whoever was at the door—she had to face them.

But the doorbell didn’t stop ringing.  

In fact, the intruder kept pressing it, again and again, like they were desperate for her to answer.

As she moved closer, she took a deep breath and peered through the peephole. Relief washed over her chest, and the anxiety that had weighed her down moments before slowly melted away.

It was Rossa, standing outside the door with bags of groceries in her hands. She wore a deep frown, her frustration visible in the tight line of her jaw.

“What the hell is taking you so long? Open the door—it’s freezing out here!” she yelled.

With a heavy sigh, Lena pressed the button beside the door, unlocking it.

“Why the hell are you in a towel?” Rossa asked, frowning as she stepped inside and dropped the bags onto the table.

Lena resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “What do you expect? This is my house.”

Rossa, who was now placing bottles of soda and packs of roasted beef onto the table, shot her a look.  

“That’s exactly why you’re still single,” she muttered, turning back to unload the rest.

Lena bit down on her irritation, tempted to snap back. But she just grit her teeth and stayed quiet.

“Why are you here in the middle of the night?” Lena asked, placing her hands on her waist as she stared at Rossa, confused.  

She had never understood why Rossa preferred roaming around at night rather than during the day. Lena had complained about it countless times, but her friend never listened.

In fact, it seemed like the more she brought it up, the more Rossa did it—like she was doing it on purpose.

But Rossa didn’t respond. She simply kept unpacking the groceries, ignoring the question entirely.

Lena sighed. How on earth was she even friends with Rossa? The girl was her complete opposite in every possible way.

“Walking around at night isn’t safe for a girl. Don’t you know that?” she said, frowning as she crossed her arms. But Rossa didn’t budge. Instead, she turned around with a wide, exaggerated smile that screamed fake.

“Why don’t you go change out of that towel so we can start our girls’ night…” she said sweetly, batting her lashes. “Please…”

That was one of her ridiculous expressions she called “charming.” Lena always made fun of it, but somehow, it still worked on her. With a smile, she nodded.  

“Alright, alright, I’m going to change!” she announced, then stormed off to her room while Rossa continued unpacking the mountain of snacks she brought.

A few minutes later, Lena returned wearing her favorite pink pajama set—shorts and a loose top. Comfortable, cute, and perfect for lounging.

She crouched beside the table where Rossa sat.  

“Better. You look way better now,” Rossa commented, earning a playful eye-roll from Lena before she glanced down at the food on the table.

“Isn’t this too much?” Lena asked, raising a brow at the spread.

“Too much? No way. If anything, you deserve more after nailing that interview!” Rossa replied, flashing her a proud grin.

Lena smiled and suddenly wrapped her arms around Rossa in a tight hug, catching her off guard.  

“You’re the best friend ever!”

“Okay, okay… don’t strangle me now—let go!” Rossa gasped, laughing. Lena let go with a giggle.

They began digging into the snacks, enjoying every bite. Rossa even sang a ridiculous song she claimed to have composed herself. It was horrible, off-key, and totally silly—Lena loved every second of it.

For all her quirks, Rossa had always been the best friend Lena could ever ask for. Even if she could be sarcastic and dramatic sometimes, she was still the best.

“So, tell me—how did the interview go?” Rossa asked, gulping down soda like it was water.

“Oh, that?” Lena said, biting into a juicy piece of roasted beef as her mind replayed everything—especially the strange words of the old woman, the eerie feeling of being watched, and the surprising ride James had given her. But out of everything, she only decided to share one detail.

“James drove me home,” she said casually.

“What?!” Rossa nearly jumped to her feet.  

“Hmmm.” Lena nodded as she savored the beef.

“You mean James Brown drove you home—and you didn’t even text me so I could rush over and ‘accidentally’ show up too?”

Lena laughed, already expecting that kind of reaction. Rossa had a well-known obsession with James. And really, who could blame her? He was rich, handsome, charming, and undeniably popular.

“You’re a bad friend, Lena. I’m seriously offended. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you,” Rossa said dramatically, flopping back onto the couch.

Lena burst out laughing. This dramatic side of Rossa never got old.

As the two friends enjoyed their night—eating, laughing, and losing themselves in easy joy—the quiet street outside their two-story building remained still and dimly lit. But out of the shadows, a figure emerged.

He was tall, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that clung to his frame like it was made just for him. His hands were tucked neatly into his pockets as he walked with measured, confident steps toward a sleek black Range Rover parked by the curb.

As he approached, the car's lights flickered—recognizing his presence. Without a word, he slipped inside and settled into the back seat. His reflection became visible in the rearview mirror.

Curls framed his face, falling slightly over a sculpted brow. His sharp jawline added to the perfection of his features, and his forest-green eyes—piercing, hypnotic—carried the kind of allure that could make any woman forget how to breathe.

He rested a palm against his jaw, the soft gleam of his expensive wristwatch catching the dim interior light. He stared out into the night, lost in thought.

The man in the driver’s seat glanced up, studying his passenger through the mirror. He could sense the tension in the air—the heavy silence and the unspoken weight.

“My king… did you meet her?” Ken asked quietly, eyes still on the mirror, searching his master’s blunt face.

“Yes,” the man answered, voice low and laced with frustration. “And she didn’t remember a thing.”

He turned his gaze away from the window, sitting upright with a smooth composure. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his hand on his head, tilting it slightly as a strange smile crept onto his lips.

“Maybe it’s for the best. At least now… it’ll be easier to kill her.”

Ken remained silent, merely nodding in response.

“You can drive,” the man ordered.

Ken started the engine. Just before the car pulled away, Arakan cast one last look at the two-story building.

“This time,” he murmured coldly, “I’ll never let you win.”