Amity Crossroads was a secluded villa district tucked away on the edge of City A. The homes weren't extravagant in the modern sense—no sprawling mountain estates or lakefront glass palaces—but they carried the quiet dignity of late 19th-century design. Classical. Reserved. Rich with the taste of old money.
Here, towering sycamore trees lined the silent roads, their dense canopies shielding the area from the chaos beyond. It was strange—how a place just a dozen minutes from downtown could feel like another world entirely. A world that didn't welcome outsiders.
Liliane returned home late that night. Summer classes ran long, and her professor had spent an extra thirty minutes dissecting Bach's later works. She walked slowly, mentally replaying the lecture and calculating how much practice time she had left.
House No. 1314 was more than just a home. It held her parents' story—their beginning, their promise. She reached for her keys.
And that's when everything changed.
"Don't scream."
A voice—low, cold—whispered behind her.
A hand clamped around her neck. Cold metal pressed into her waist.
The key slipped from her fingers, landing on the stone path with a soft ding.
She didn't scream. She couldn't. Her body froze.
If someone sneaks up on you outside your own front door—if a knife touches your skin and a stranger's breath brushes your ear—can you scream?
Liliane couldn't move. Couldn't think.
"Get inside."
She unlocked the door with trembling fingers. He kicked the fallen key into the yard behind them. The gate slammed shut.
Then the click of a lock turning. Her world sealed off from the outside.
This wasn't an apartment complex with cameras and night security. This was a villa. Private. Isolated.
She had grown up here. She had never even seen a thief on this street. But now—now she was inside her own house with a stranger holding a weapon.
The knife never left her back.
"Where's your phone?"
"In... my schoolbag..."
He rummaged through it. Keys clinked. Buttons beeped.
"What's your home number?"
Liliane answered automatically, eyes fixed on the aquarium near the wall. "670…****."
He dialed.
The landline rang.
She didn't understand why—until he hung up and said, "Good."
Then came another order. "Sit."
She collapsed onto the sofa. Her bones felt like water.
And finally—finally—she looked at his face.
He wasn't what she expected.
Tailored black suit. Silk shirt. Leather shoes. Hair sleek and dark, not messy. A watch—expensive. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not in a mugshot.
Liliane stared at him.
"You're... not a thief?" she whispered.
Her voice cracked. Too soft, too clear.
Something flickered in the man's eyes.
Then—flatly, calmly—he said: "Make me coffee."
Liliane obeyed. She wasn't sure why.
In the kitchen, the water boiled. The coffee brewed. She heard him on the phone, giving orders. A name surfaced—Elias. She didn't understand the rest, but the tension in his voice was enough to keep her hiding behind the door.
This was her home.
But she was a guest now.
She returned with a tray and opened her mouth to speak.
"Would you like—"
Then she saw it.
Not the letter opener he had dropped on the table—but the gun beside it.
Sleek. Black. Deadly.
A Glock 17.
Her knees nearly gave out.
The man followed her gaze and sighed. He hadn't meant for her to see that.
Too late now.
At that moment—three soft knocks. A pause. Then the door opened.
Two men walked in.
They didn't pretend to be anything other than what they were: dangerous.
One looked like a street thug. The other moved like a soldier. Both wore suits, but there was no mistaking their purpose.
Killers.
Liliane's breath caught. Her world cracked.
"Miss Liliane will be resting upstairs," said the man on the couch—calmly, as if this were all routine. "You're not going to class tomorrow."
He had read her schedule. Her life was no longer private.
"You'll stay home. You're not allowed to leave."
Just like that, she became a prisoner.
She didn't protest. Couldn't.
As one of the men gently guided her upstairs, Liliane finally realized—this wasn't a robbery.
This was a takeover.