Enzo's POV
After the conversation with Oliver, things shifted. He started avoiding me, barely making eye contact during our shifts, always finding a reason to walk away. It made my day less stressful at least he was respecting my wishes.
By the time my shift ended, it was late and I was running on fumes. Every bone in my body ached, my head was foggy, and I could barely keep my eyes open on the ride home. The moment I stepped inside, the door creaked shut behind me with a sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet of the apartment. I kicked my shoes off without a second thought, not caring where they landed—probably halfway across the room, maybe one under the coffee table. Whatever.
All I wanted was sleep.
I trudged down the hallway like a ghost, my steps slow and dragging. Once inside my bedroom, I didn't even bother flipping the light switch. The soft glow from the streetlamp outside filtered in through the blinds, casting faint lines across the bed. I didn't change. Didn't wash up. Didn't think. I just collapsed face-first onto the mattress, the coolness of the sheets against my skin making me exhale a long, shaky breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding in all day.
For a moment, the silence was everything. A soft kind of mercy. A brief pause in the chaos of my thoughts.
But it didn't last long.
"You look tired."
The voice was silky, smooth, and far too familiar. It cut through the stillness like a knife wrapped in velvet.
I didn't even flinch. I didn't have the energy to be startled. Honestly, I wasn't surprised at all. Of course he was here.
I didn't lift up my head, I didn't have to.
A groan slipped from my throat, muffled against the pillow. "Let's get this over with," I muttered, voice rough with sleep and irritation. I turned my head just enough to glare at him through slitted eyes. "I want you to stop breaking into my house. This is my house. I pay the rent, the bills, everything. So stop waltzing in here like you own the damn place."
A low chuckle oozed from the shadows, silky and cold. It slipped under my skin like ice water. "But I do own the place, little human."
I sat up slowly, heart kicking in my chest, a mix of anger and unease. My gaze locked onto the darkest corner of the room where his voice had come from, though I still couldn't see him. Just the faint glint of something—eyes, maybe. Watching. Always watching.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice sharper now, the sleep gone.
Silence stretched, long enough to make me question if I'd imagined him. But then he spoke, quiet and smug. "I bought this building the very next day I laid eyes on you. Didn't your landlady tell you?"
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. That explained the sudden silence from my landlady, the way no one could reach her anymore. But why hadn't she said anything? Why hadn't anyone?
A chill crept down my spine, the kind that felt like phantom fingers brushing over my skin, lingering long after the contact was gone.
"Well," I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt as I straightened my spine. "This room is mine for as long as my lease says it is. Do you make a habit of breaking into all your tenants' homes and—molesting them?"
My words came out sharper than I intended, but it was the only weapon I had in that moment: defiance. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I didn't take a step back. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
He laughed—a low, amused sound that wrapped around me like velvet, dangerous and soft at the same time. "Only the cute ones who rescue strangers in dark alleys," he said smoothly.
That... didn't make any sense.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, standing slowly and walking toward him, but the moment I got close, he was suddenly standing in front of me. So fast I didn't see him move. My head was gently tilted to the side, his hand at my neck.
"Who touched you?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
My heart pounded. "What are you talking about?" I stepped back, trying to meet his gaze fully, and when I did—when our eyes locked—everything in me froze.
I knew that face.
It was him.
The man I'd helped that night in the alley. The one who vanished before the cops arrived. The one I thought I imagined in a half-dream.
"How did you—?" I started, my voice barely a whisper.
"I said," he growled again, more urgently, "who touched you? Why is there a hickey on your neck?"
His grip tightened around my waist, pulling me close as his fingers brushed against the bruised skin at my throat. I winced.
And just like that, I remembered. Oliver.
He'd grabbed me when I said no. Pinned me when I tried to leave. I'd fought him off, barely.
"That was from Doc Oliver," I muttered. "He… he tried to rape me."
Rage exploded in his eyes. "I'm going to kill him. That bastard still tried, after I stopped him the last time?"
I blinked, stunned. "Last time?"
He scoffed, his voice filled with venom. "You really are clueless, aren't you? Trusting a man like him. I warned you. The night you went out drinking with your coworkers—he brought you back here. You were drunk out of your mind. He tried to rape you. But I stopped him before he could."
My knees gave out beneath me.
I stumbled back, barely catching myself before collapsing entirely—but then I did fall. Onto the floor, the room spinning.
He… tried before?
And Oliver just acted like nothing happened because I couldn't remember?
My breath came in short, shallow gasps. Shame, horror, disbelief—all of it washed over me in crashing waves. The floor felt cold beneath my hands, but I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.