𝐎𝐍𝐄

                                    

                                          



Katherine Louise glared up at the ceiling of her apartment building. A hole had somehow been punched into the acoustical tile, exposing the wiring and pipes and tubes. The girl shook her head and continued up the eighth flight of stairs, leading to her fourth-floor apartment, grumbling about how she doesn't pay so much in rent to live somewhere with holes in places there shouldn't be.
She juggled her keys and her laundry basket for a moment before shoving the gold key into the front door of 408 and twisted to the right, humming Bob Seger's Beautiful Loser. She left the record playing in the apartment, and she can hear the track playing through the thin walls.
Somehow, every front door in the apartment building violated the golden rule of "righty tighty, lefty loosey," which was a big deal to the girl when she moved in at the tender age of sixteen. How could a door not follow the rules of the only thing in her life that hadn't changed?
She felt personally attacked.
The door had always been a heavy thing and creaked—a short and alarming squawk—as it opened and closed. The weight of it slammed into the doorframe time after time. It reminded her of the dozens of dodgy motel rooms she stayed in for years, all with the same creaky door and questionable stains.
The second the shut the door, there was a light noise down the hall, a small clatter, like a glass on her desk. Not broken—set down.
Katherine paused for a brief moment before continuing into her apartment with caution in her step. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and that quiet ringing seemed to intensify, searching for anything that would disrupt it. Another clatter, a floorboard creak, a voice. Katherine glanced to the windowsill above the sink—still lined with salt. And the door to her apartment travelled right over the line, so there was no disruption there.
She ventured down the hallway and set her laundry bag on the ground before flicking her bedroom light on. 
She didn't scream. Her eyes had just landed on the figure by her door. He opened his mouth to speak—that was his intention, to speak to her—but then the girl swung.
In retrospect, waiting in her room wasn't his finest decision.
He grunted and averted her fist to the side, wrapped his long fingers around her wrist before twisting it behind her back, and pinned her to the wall. The gun was slipped from his waistband and hammer pulled back before she felt the muzzle press into the small of her back—all in under three seconds.
Katherine stared at the wall with a squished cheek obstructing her vision, breathing a bit labored after the brief tussle. "Look, dude," she huffed, blonde strands of hair moving with her breath. She wiggled her fingers, moving the tendons of her wrist underneath the man's ironclad grip. "If you're trying to rob someone, don't try college kids. They're broker than the next homeless person."
The man's eyes twitched a bit before he released the girl. She slowly moved her arm to her chest, flexing her hand, and quickly swiped the gun from him before turning it around to face the man. Then he got a good look at her face.
Long blonde hair, feathered blunt fringe that hangs just below her brow. He can still see the two long, full dark eyebrows underneath her fringe. 
Dark blonde, sandy brown, fades a shade lighter near the temples, then morphs into a wheat blonde, something a little lighter near the ends. 
Her face is beautiful; heart-shaped and surprisingly still holding the last of a summer olive glow. Her cheekbones are high, and her jawline is remarkably angular without being too sharp, and leads into a long, slender neck. Eyes are large and baby blue, but still somehow laced with danger and calculation—just like when she was younger. The leopard spots still litter her nose and the area immediate to her nostrils.