Another hallway light was out when Victor arrived.
Lynn was washing a glass when he heard the knocking.
It wasn’t a normal knock.
Three beats.
A pause.
Two beats.
Not heavy, but grating.
He turned off the faucet.
The apartment went dead silent.
The knocking came again, followed by a voice this time.
“Lynn?
Open up.” A stranger’s voice.
Male, not deep, a bit raspy.
Lynn didn’t answer.
He set the glass in the sink, wiped his hands on a towel, walked over to the front door, and looked through the peephole.
The man was in his thirties with short hair, a gaunt face, and a slightly crooked nose.
He wore a black jacket with his hands shoved in his pockets, standing far too close to the door.
Lynn had never seen him before.
He took half a step back and grabbed his phone.
First, he started a voice recording.
Then he pulled up 911 on the keypad, though he didn’t hit call yet.
His thumb hovered over the green button.
Outside, the man knocked again.
“I know you’re in there.
Let’s talk.” Through the door, Lynn asked, “Who are you?” The man gave a dry chuckle.
“A friend.” “Name.” “Victor.” Lynn said nothing.
Victor leaned closer against the door, lowering his voice.
“Danny sent me.
There’s been a little misunderstanding between you two.” “Tell him to send an email.” A half-second silence fell outside.
Victor laughed.
“Are all you corporate guys like this?
Everything has to be an email?” Lynn checked the door chain.
It was engaged.
A chair was wedged securely under the doorknob.
Bu the door was far too old.
Unreliable.
He placed his phone on the shoe rack, angling the lens toward the entryway so it captured the lock and part of the room.
“I’m calling the police.” “Don’t,” Victor said.
“I’m just delivering something.” A piece of paper slid under the crack of the door.
Lynn didn’t pick it up.
Only a few lines of text were visible, looking like some kind of agreement.
Victor said, “Sign it, and this is all over.” “Leave it there.” “Sign it now.” Lynn picked up his phone and pressed call.
Silence fell outside.
A second later, the doorknob turned slightly.
Softly.
Testing the latch.
Lynn’s back went rigid.
“Are you picking my lock?” Victor dropped the act.
“I told you, just a quick chat.” He turned the handle again, harder this time.
The door chain rattled against the frame.
Lynn dialed 911.
Before the operator connected, a heavy kick slammed into the door from outside.
The old door shook violently.
The chair wedged underneath slid back a few centimeters with a harsh scrape.
Lynn’s heart sank.
A second kick.
A crack split the wood around the lock.
The operator’s voice finally came through.
*”911, what’s your emergency?”* Lynn’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was tight.
“Someone is breaking down my door.
Queens—” A third kick.
The door chain stretched to its absolute limit as the wooden frame splintered.
Lynn’s mouth went dry as he gave the address, his tongue almost tripping over the words.
The dispatcher told him to get away from the door and stay on the line.
He tossed the phone onto the couch, keeping it on speaker.
A fourth kick forced the door inward.
The chair overturned.
The chain didn’t snap, but the wooden trim securing it shattered, leaving a gap wide enough for a hand to slip inside.
Victor’s arm reached through the opening, groping around for the chain latch.
Lynn grabbed the fire extinguisher beside the shoe rack.
His hand slipped; he almost dropped it.
Victor’s fingers brushed the latch.
Lynn swung the extinguisher and brought it smashing down.
The first blow caught Victor right on the wrist.
A howl of pain erupted from outside, followed by a string of curses.
Lynn didn’t stop.
He swung a second time, hitting the back of the hand.
Victor jerked his arm back violently, the sound of his body crashing against the hallway wall echoing outside.
Lynn backed away, breathing heavily.
*”Sir?
Sir, are you safe?”* the dispatcher kept calling out.
Just as Lynn opened his mouth to reply, the hallway went quiet.
Unnaturally quiet.
He gripped the extinguisher, his palms soaked with sweat.
Victor hadn’t left.
Lynn knew it—a shadow still lingered beneath the crack of the door.
A split second later, the door slammed open from the outside.
The chain latch tore free completely, taking a chunk of wood with it.
Victor burst inside.
His left wrist hung at an unnatural angle, but his right hand held a small blade.
A folding knife.
Small, but lethal enough.
Lynn retreated until he slammed into the dining table.
The sharp corner dug into his lower back, forcing a gasp of pain out of him.
Victor was pale, but his eyes were murderous.
“You fucking piece of shit.” He lunged.
Fast.
Not like in the movies—no flashy moves, just a man charging forward with a blade.
Lynn raised the extinguisher to block.
The tip of the blade screeched across the heavy metal cylinder.
Victor plowed into him, slamming Lynn hard against the wall.
A jolt of pain shot through his back, and he nearly lost his grip on the heavy canister.
They grappled in the cramped living room, knocking the table askew and sending a glass crashing to the floor, shattering into shards.
The knife jabbed forward again.
Lynn instinctively dodged to the side.
The blade grazed his arm, slicing through his sleeve and leaving a burning trail of pain.
For half a second after that, his mind went blank.
It wasn’t calm—it was sheer terror.
As Victor raised the knife for a third strike, Lynn grabbed a shard of broken glass from the table and hurled it at him.
It missed his face, striking his shoulder instead.
Victor cursed, his movements faltering for a fraction of a second.
Lynn seized the nozzle and discharged the fire extinguisher straight into his face.
A cloud of white powder exploded into the room, instantly filling the air.
Victor choked, instinctively shutting his eyes.
Lynn lunged forward and brought the heavy metal base of the extinguisher crashing against the side of Victor’s head.
One strike.
Victor stumbled.
A second strike caught him near the temple with a dull thud.
Victor listed to the side, collided with the overturned chair, tripped, and struck the back of his head hard against the table corner.
Then he collapsed onto the floor and stopped moving.
White chemical dust drifted lazily in the air.
Lynn stood frozen, still clutching the fire extinguisher.
The sound of his own heavy breathing echoed in his ears, loud and ragged like a broken bellows.
The dispatcher’s voice crackled from the phone on the couch.
*”Sir?
Are you still there?
Police are on the way.”* Lynn tried to speak, but his throat seized up.
He looked down at Victor.
Blood was spreading slowly from beneath the man’s head—not a massive pool, but bright red against the floor.
A sudden wave of nausea hit Lynn’s stomach.
He turned and leaned against the wall, dry-heaving violently, yielding nothing but stomach acid.
Only now did the slashed arm begin to throb with a delayed, searing pain.
His hands shook uncontrollably.
The extinguisher slipped from his grasp and thudded onto the floor.
*Thud.* The loud noise made him flinch.
A few seconds passed before he managed to walk to the couch and pick up his phone.
“He’s down,” Lynn said, his voice sounding entirely unfamiliar.
The dispatcher instructed him to stay clear of the injured man, not to touch the knife, and wait for officers to arrive.
Lynn glanced at the folding knife near the table leg.
He didn’t touch it.
He backed up until his spine pressed against the wall, slid down to the floor, and kept his eyes fixed on Victor, terrified the man might suddenly spring back up.
Victor didn’t move.
A neighbor opened their door out in the hallway.
“What’s going on out there?” Lynn immediately shouted, “Stay back!
The police are coming!” His voice came out much louder than intended.
Silence fell outside for a moment, followed by a muffled curse and the slam of a door.
Lynn looked down at his hands.
They were still trembling.
But strangely, beneath that panic, a subtle coldness was slowly creeping up.
Not overwhelming—like icy water seeping through his chest.
It didn’t make him fearless, nor did it bring relief.
It simply began organizing the chaos into distinct, logical details.
*Phone recording.* *911 call log.* *Forced entry marks.* *Position of the folding knife.* *Don’t step in the blood.* *Security camera angles.* *Neighbor outside.* Lynn looked up at the phone mount on the shoe rack.
The old phone was still recording.
The angle was slightly tilted, but it should have captured the entryway.
Sitting by the wall, he didn’t reach for it; he simply committed every detail to memory.
Something unnaturally cold stirred within his chest—a faint, fleeting impulse, like an eye briefly opening before vanishing back into the dark.
Lynn closed his eyes.
His hands were still trembling, his arm throbbed, and his stomach churned.
But his mind was already prioritizing actions step by step.
That cold clarity terrified him even more.
*** The police arrived faster than he expected—or perhaps those few minutes sitting against the wall had just stretched out forever.
Heavy footsteps echoed outside before flashlight beams cut into the room.
“Police!
Hands where I can see them!” Lynn slowly raised his hands.
“I called it in.” Two officers swept inside.
One covered Lynn while the other checked Victor.
“The knife is by the table leg,” Lynn said.
“I didn’t touch it.” The officer glanced at him.
“Are you injured?” Lynn looked down.
A section of his left sleeve was soaked through with blood.
“A laceration.” “Paramedics are en route.” The other officer knelt by Victor and called out that he still had a pulse.
Leaning against the wall, Lynn felt his shoulders sag slightly upon hearing that.
Not dead.
At least not right now.
But the momentary relief only left his stomach feeling more nauseous.
Everything after that blurred into fragments.
Questioning by the police.
Paramedics arriving.
Neighbors peeking out from the hallway.
Someone trying to record video on a phone before being shooed away by an officer.
Lynn’s arm was bandaged and wrapped in gauze.
The EMT asked if he felt dizzy; he admitted he did a little.
The EMT said it could be adrenaline or the physical shock.
Victor was wheeled out on a gurney with an oxygen mask over his face.
Lynn watched as the stretcher passed the doorway.
Victor’s left arm dangled off the side, the wrist severely swollen.
Lynn’s fingers twitched involuntarily as that strange cold sensation surfaced once more.
He clenched his fists.
He couldn’t let anyone notice—even though he wasn’t sure what anyone would even see.
An officer stepped up holding a notepad.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Lynn surveyed his trashed apartment.
“Should we do the statement first?” The officer frowned.
“Are you sure?” Lynn nodded.
In truth, he wasn’t sure at all.
He was simply afraid that if he left, the scene would be compromised.
The officer studied him before finally saying, “Give me a brief run-down for now.
We’ll take a formal statement later.” Lynn nodded.
“Okay.” His throat was still tight as he spoke, but his narrative was clear and methodical.
A stranger knocked.
Claimed to be Victor.
Sent by Daniel.
Demanded he sign documents.
Attempted forced entry.
He called 911.
The intruder entered with a knife.
He used a fire extinguisher in self-defense.
Every sentence was concise, devoid of extraneous explanations.
When he reached the part where Victor lunged at him, he paused.
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
Seeing this, the officer waited patiently.
A few seconds passed before Lynn continued.
Outside the window, red and blue police lights flashed, casting rhythmic glimmers on the wall.
He suddenly felt that the pristine, polished lighting of the Vought lobby was infinitely far away—so distant it felt like another world entirely.