JOSH.
It starts the same every time.
The sky is orange — not sunset, but flame. Smoke curls past the broken panes of my window like it's trying to find me. From up here, Toronto looks like a graveyard of steel and ash.
I step back.
The condo is too quiet.
Houdini's leash still hangs on the hook. His water bowl is dry. There's blood on the sink — smeared, not splattered. Someone tried to clean it, but not well.
Then I hear them.
Low voices from the hallway.
Brent's sharp laugh. Eric muttering something about "portions" and "fat stores." I freeze. My body knows what comes next.
I try to move — I don't.
Rosie steps out of the bedroom in one of my shirts, barefoot and glowing like nothing's wrong. Her hair is down, tangled. Her eyes slide past me like she's forgotten my name.
"He's not eating," she purrs. "Maybe he knows."
Eric joins her. He's shirtless, bones pressing against his skin like the body forgot how to hold itself together. His arm brushes hers. Her fingers linger on his stomach.
I don't breathe.
Brent walks in next. He doesn't look at me — he looks at her. His hand curls around her wrist, possessive. Her mouth opens slightly, just for him.
"You said you were done with him," Brent growls.
"I am," she says, not looking away.
"Then let's be done."
Rosie turns to me, smiling like she's offering mercy. She straddles me — soft skin, cold eyes — and kisses me once on the lips.
"You were sweet," she whispers. "But you don't share well."
Brent lifts the knife. Eric's already dragging Houdini away.
I try to scream.
--
I woke choking on a scream, my lungs locked around it like a fist had crushed my ribs. My skin was drenched, cold with sweat, clinging to the sheets like they were part of me.
For a second — two, maybe three — I didn't remember where I was.
Then the world slid back into place: the exposed concrete ceiling of the penthouse, the faint hum of the fridge in the open-concept kitchen, the soft jingle of Houdini's tags as he stirred beside me. Real. This was real.
I sat up too fast and nearly hurled.
Houdini padded up to me, tail wagging gently, ears down. He pressed his little body against mine and let out a huff like he knew. Like he'd seen it too.
"It's just a dream," I muttered into the dark. "Just a goddamn dream."
But I didn't believe it.
Because this wasn't the first time I'd seen it. The same dream every night this week. And tonight, there'd been new details.
The scratch on the counter. The half-lit skyline. The way Rosie tilted her head when she smiled — just a fraction too far, like her bones didn't fit right anymore.
I ran a hand over my face and felt the grit of tears or sweat or fear. Maybe all three.
I looked at Houdini. He looked back, calm, expectant.
"We need to go to the store," I told him. "Before the world ends."
And this time… I wasn't joking. Best case scenario, I'll return the gear unopened. Worst case, I'll be prepared. There's nothing wrong with being prepared.