Chapter 4

The glass doors of the lobby slid open with a soft whoosh, and my entire body went rigid.

It was him. Mark Johnson.

He walked in, shaking a small umbrella, a charming, apologetic smile plastered on his face. He was holding two paper cups from the 24-hour coffee shop down the street.

My stomach plummeted. The sense of safety I had built around myself shattered into a million pieces.

[Round 2! He' s persistent, you gotta give him that.]

[The coffee gambit. Classic. Let' s see if she falls for it.]

He saw me on the couch and his smile widened. He walked over, his steps confident and unhurried. I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated hatred for him, for his false charm, for his refusal to take no for an answer.

"Sarah," he said, his voice soft and reasonable. "I am so sorry. I think we got off on the wrong foot upstairs."

I just stared at him, my jaw clenched. I didn't say a word.

"I realize I came on too strong," he continued, completely undeterred by my silence. "I was just trying to be nice, and I made you uncomfortable. That was my mistake. I felt terrible about it, so I went and got you a coffee. As a peace offering. Please, accept my apology."

He held out one of the cups to me. It smelled like my favorite caramel latte.

For a split second, a tiny, foolish part of my brain wanted to believe him. Maybe I had overreacted. Maybe he was just a clueless guy who didn't understand boundaries. He looked so sincere, so regretful. The exhaustion of the night, the stress of the project, it was all weighing on me. Maybe taking the coffee would just make him go away.

Then, a new comment shimmered into view right beside the coffee cup he was holding.

[That' s not just coffee. Drink up, little architect. Time for your nap.]

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. My blood ran cold.

I stared at the cup. It looked so innocent. A warm, comforting drink. But the comment replayed in my head. That' s not just coffee.

My eyes narrowed. I looked closer at the cup, then at him. His smile was perfect, but his eyes... his eyes were watchful, expectant. He wasn't apologetic. He was predatory.

"No, thank you," I said, my voice flat and hard.

His smile faltered. "Oh. Come on, it's just a coffee. I promise it's not poisoned or anything," he joked, but his laugh was hollow.

[She' s suspicious. Abort? No, double down. Convince her.]

[Tell her you'll drink from it first!]

"I don't want it," I repeated.

As if on cue, a faint, chemical smell wafted from the cup, something bitter and medicinal that was almost, but not quite, masked by the sweet caramel. My stomach churned.

And then, a strange wave of dizziness washed over me. The edges of my vision started to feel fuzzy, the bright lights of the lobby seeming to dim for a moment.

My breath hitched. Had he...? How?

I hadn' t drunk the coffee. I hadn't even touched it. But the smell... was it possible to drug someone just through inhalation? Was that even a thing? Or was I just panicking?

No. This was real. My head felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish. I felt a disconnect between my mind and my body, a scary, floating sensation. He had done something. The sedative, whatever it was, was already in my system.