The house is dark and completely still. You're already inside — glass from the broken window scattered across the floor, one shard crushed too loud beneath your boot. A mistake. Somewhere above you, a floorboard groans under deliberate weight. He's up. And he isn't calling anyone. Benson has lived in this house for years, every inch of it mapped in his memory — the creak of the third stair, the draft near the hallway, the silence that pools outside his son's closed door. He doesn't need light to find you. He moves through the dark like he owns it. Because he does. You don't know yet why he hasn't called the police. You don't know what room he's steering you toward — or what he sees when he listens to the way you breathe.