Chapter 1 — Welcome to The Haven

Nara

The sky looms heavy and gray as I step out of the cab, the faint drizzle soaking into my oversized hoodie before I can pull the hood up. The Haven Apartments rise before me like a glass monolith, its sleek facade reflecting the city’s stormy palette. The drizzle coats the building in a shimmering sheen, as if it’s wearing a mask of perfection. For a moment, I stand there on the curb, gripping my duffel bag tightly, feeling impossibly small.

When I researched The Haven, the brochures promised exclusivity and security. A place where the city’s elite could forget their troubles—but for me, it’s a fortress, a refuge from the shadows of my past. Still, its cold, polished exterior feels more like a mirror of my own fractures, hiding cracks I don’t yet have the strength to face.

The doorman approaches, his professional smile so practiced it borders on disingenuous. “Ms. Johnson?” he asks, his tone polite but perfunctory.

I nod, my voice caught somewhere between my chest and throat. He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—about my hesitation. Maybe he’s used to people like me, people who arrive at The Haven with hope in their eyes and ghosts in their shadow.

Inside, the lobby smells faintly of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sharp tang of rain-soaked concrete. A chic café occupies one corner, its patrons murmuring softly over their meticulously crafted lattes. No one looks up as I pass, their gazes fixed on their phones or their drinks. I’m grateful for the anonymity.

The marble floors gleam under subdued lighting, each step of my boots echoing faintly in the cavernous space, as if the building itself is swallowing any trace of me. Beneath the ceiling’s recessed lights, faint red dots blink intermittently—security cameras tracking every corner. The concierge, a young man in a sharp suit, greets me with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

“You’re in 1507,” he says, sliding a slim keycard across the counter before I can fully reach it. “Welcome to The Haven.” His delivery is flat, overly rehearsed, as though he’s long since forgotten the meaning behind the words.

I mutter a quiet thank you and take the card, the cold, smooth plastic pressed against my palm. The urge to wipe my hand on my jeans rises, but I stop myself.

In the elevator, the only sound is the soft hum of machinery as the numbers flicker overhead. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls, pale and distant, her brown eyes shadowed with a mix of exhaustion and wariness. The faint scent of cleaning chemicals clings to the air, sharp and antiseptic, amplifying the sterile stillness. Out of habit, I glance at my key pendant, the silver chain catching the dim light.

The fifteenth floor is cloaked in muted gray tones, the corridor stretching ahead like a tunnel with no end. It’s eerily quiet, as though the building is holding its breath. The faint scent of rain lingers, carried on the metallic chill of the air conditioning. My apartment door, marked with a sleek, unadorned plate reading “1507,” sits at the far end of the hall.

As I slide the keycard into the reader, a faint creak echoes from somewhere behind me. I glance over my shoulder, but the hallway is empty. Still, the sound lingers in my mind like a question I can’t answer.

Stepping inside, I’m greeted by silence so complete it feels oppressive. The apartment is impeccably designed—too impeccable. Everything gleams with an almost clinical perfection: polished surfaces, straight lines, and muted, impersonal tones. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer an expansive view of the city skyline, the waterfront glinting faintly in the distance through the drizzle. It should be breathtaking, but instead, it feels like I’m looking at a postcard—something beautiful but untouchable, lifeless.

I set my duffel bag down near the couch and take a slow lap around the space. The kitchen is immaculate, its granite countertops shining under recessed lighting, every appliance tucked neatly into its place. The living room holds the bare essentials: a gray couch, a glass coffee table, and an abstract painting in muted blues and greens. The bedroom is more of the same—white linens, a pristine dresser, and a closet that yawns empty, its cavernous space mocking my meager belongings.

I crack open my duffel bag and pull out a framed photograph of my mother and me. I place it carefully on the bedside table, the only personal touch in the otherwise sterile room. For a moment, I feel like an intruder in someone else’s life, like I’m trespassing in a home that doesn’t belong to me.

I wander toward the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. The city sprawls below in all its chaotic beauty, a patchwork of steel and glass, of motion and stillness. From up here, it almost looks peaceful. I know better.

I think of my mother. Of the warmth of our small, cluttered apartment. Of how her laugh could fill every corner of a room. This place feels like its exact opposite—cold, quiet, hollow. And for the first time since stepping out of the cab, I wonder if I made a mistake coming here.

The weight I thought I’d left behind begins to creep in, settling heavy in the pit of my stomach. This was supposed to be my fresh start, my chance to rebuild. But standing here, in this pristine, soulless apartment, it feels more like exile.

A faint sound—a soft creak from the hallway—pulls me from my thoughts. My pulse quickens, and I tell myself it’s nothing. The building settling. A neighbor passing by. Still, my hand instinctively rises to the key pendant around my neck.

The silver chain digs faintly into my skin, its familiar weight grounding me. The tiny key rests against my collarbone, its swirling patterns worn smooth from years of nervous tracing. It’s the only thing I have left of my mother. I close my fingers around it, my thumb brushing over the intricate grooves as I’ve done countless times before. A memory flickers at the edge of my mind—her hurried voice, the sharp clatter of something falling—but it slips away before I can grasp it.

A sharp knock at the door startles me, the sound reverberating through the stillness. My breath catches, and for a moment, I freeze, my heart pounding hard enough to feel in my ribs. My mind whirls with irrational fears—what if it’s someone I don’t want to see? What if it’s not safe? But I remind myself this is The Haven, the supposed pinnacle of security and exclusivity.

Still, I hesitate, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

When I finally open the door, I’m met with a man who fills the frame entirely.

He’s tall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow into the apartment. His sharp, angular features look like they were carved from stone, and dark, tousled hair falls just enough to cast shadows over piercing blue eyes. Eyes that seem to see through me. For a moment, the world tilts, and I forget how to breathe.

“Ms. Johnson,” he says, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a faint accent. Russian, I think. His tone carries a quiet authority, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“Yes?” I manage, though my voice is barely above a whisper.

“I live next door,” he says, motioning toward the apartment across the hall. “Alexander Solonik.”

There’s no smile, no offer to shake hands—just his name, delivered with unnerving precision. His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, and I feel exposed, as though he’s cataloging every detail.

“Nice to meet you,” I reply, the words catching awkwardly in my throat.

He nods, his expression unreadable. “If there’s anything...” He pauses, the unfinished sentence hanging in the air like smoke. “Sometimes the past finds us where we least expect it.”

Before I can respond, he turns and walks away, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

I close the door, leaning against it as I try to catch my breath. My heart is still racing, though I’m not sure if it’s from fear or something else entirely.

Through the window, the city’s lights begin to flicker on, one by one, casting a shimmering glow against the rain.

Welcome to The Haven, I think bitterly.

But as I turn off the lights and let the darkness settle in, one thought circles in my mind with unsettling clarity.

Alexander’s eyes. There’s something about them—something achingly familiar.

And for the first time in years, I wonder if I’m truly ready to face the past I’ve tried so hard to forget.