Chapter 7 Pack Light

I woke before the sun.

The air was heavy. Still. The kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl, like even the walls are holding their breath.

My mouth was dry. My limbs stiff, like I'd slept in armor. For a few seconds, I didn't move. I just lay there, heart beating slow and uncertain, like it hadn't caught up with everything that had shifted inside me overnight.

The folder was still on the table.

I could see it from bed - a thin square of white in a room that felt darker than it should. It hadn't moved, but it felt louder somehow, like it had soaked into the fabric of the apartment. Like it had become a second presence.

The weight of knowing... it changes everything.

I pulled myself up slowly. Every step felt deliberate, like I was moving through water. The floor was cold beneath my feet, but I didn't flinch. My skin prickled for a different reason now - not from the chill, but from knowing I wasn't alone in my own life, not really. Not for weeks.

Maybe not ever.

I passed the hallway shelf on my way to the bathroom. I didn't look at it directly. My eyes hovered near it, around it, anywhere but on it. I didn't need to see it again. I already knew. That shelf had watched me. And worse - it might not have been alone.

Jamie hadn't said it outright, but I'd read between the lines.

There were more.

Bathroom. Bedroom. Living room. Corners I used to trust. Spaces I used to feel safe in.

The betrayal was everywhere now.

I left the bathroom door open while I showered. Not out of defiance - I just couldn't stand the feeling of closed spaces. Steam billowed out into the hallway like a slow exhale. I kept my eyes on the water the whole time. Not the tiles. Not the corners. Just the water. Let it run over me like it could wash away the feeling of being watched.

When I stepped out, the mirror was fogged over, but I didn't wipe it. I didn't want to see myself yet. I felt like something had cracked open inside me, and I didn't know what would be looking back.

I dressed slowly. Long sleeves. Comfortable pants. The softest fabric I owned. Nothing clingy. Nothing showy. Just enough to feel like skin I chose.

Then I started cleaning.

Not because it was dirty - I'd cleaned two days ago - but because I needed something to do. Something that felt normal. I scrubbed the counters, rewashed dishes, even wiped down the knobs on the cabinets. I dusted the bookshelves. I vacuumed under the table. I cleaned the windows until the glass squeaked.

Then I just stood there, staring out through them.

The canal below was quiet. The world moved like it didn't know what had happened to me. Joggers passed. A couple walked a dog. A tram rattled by in the distance. Everything looked so normal, like the earth hadn't shifted under my feet the night before.

But it had.

And now I had to decide what to do about it.

I sat at the table and opened the folder.

This time, I didn't skim.

I read every word.

Every clause. Every bullet point. Every term.

The language was smooth, clean - too clean. Like it had been curated for someone already broken enough to consider it. The new apartment was in a different part of the city, less central, but safer. More secure. There would be no roommates. No visitors. No leases shared with people I barely trusted.

One camera. One viewer.

Him.

The contract promised full legal control. No broadcasting. No data sharing. Nothing stored outside his own encrypted system. No physical contact. No requests for behavior. No interference with my job or personal time. The only condition - that I allow him to watch. Just him. Just live.

One man.

Always watching.

It should've made me sick.

Maybe it did.

But it also made me feel... tethered. Like there was at least one person who could pull the footage offline, who could trace every illegal thread and erase it before it spread any further.

It wasn't freedom.

But it was power.

It was function.

Survival, in the most bitter form.

And right now, survival felt like something I couldn't afford to gamble with.

I looked at the contract again and whispered to the empty room, "This is insane."

The apartment didn't respond.

Of course it didn't.

It never had.

I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Celeste:

"I've read the terms. I'm in."

My thumb hovered over the send button for a long second - long enough to feel like I might delete it all and crawl under the bed instead.

Then I hit send.

Her reply came five minutes later. Short. Final.

"Understood. The car will be there by 4 p.m. Pack only what you need. Everything else will be handled."

Handled.

What a word.

What did that even mean in a life like mine?

I stood up and walked to the bedroom.

Packing didn't take long. I didn't want to take much. I didn't want this version of my life to come with me. Just the basics - laptop, charger, two sweaters, underwear, the book I was halfway through.

I thought about bringing the mug I liked. The one with the cracked handle and faint coffee stains. But something about it felt too familiar, like carrying a part of this haunted space into the next.

I left it.

I sat by the window for a while after that. Not reading. Not editing. Just sitting. Letting the minutes bleed past. The quiet stretched too far, too tight. Even the city felt like it was holding back.

At 3:50, I stood by the door with my small bag in hand.

At 4:00 on the dot, a car pulled up outside. Sleek. Dark. Quiet. A man stepped out - middle-aged, clean suit, blank face - and opened the door without a word.

No questions.

No smiles.

No names.

I climbed in.

I didn't look back.

I didn't want to.

The building fell away behind me. The streets blurred. The city I thought I'd restart my life in turned to shadows in the rearview mirror.

And somewhere in the silence between this life and the next, I let go of the girl who thought she could ever really be invisible.