The next day I came home dead on my feet. Midnight ads felt like a dream I'd already forgotten.
I collapsed on the couch, thumb on the take-out app—
Ding-dong.
Too fast for food. I hauled myself up.
She stood on the mat, soft-edged in the porch light. White tee, light jeans, a suitcase the size of a dorm fridge. Round eyes. A smile that glowed.
"Hi," she said. "It's Luna."
Her voice was kitten-soft.
My irritation melted. "Come in."
She rolled the suitcase in—no squeak, not even a whisper. Must be those Japanese wheels, I thought, and made a mental note to ask for the link.
We talked. Recent grad. No job. Nowhere to stay. Grateful for the work.
"The platform said you prefer unscented detergent," she mentioned casually.
I had never listed that anywhere.
A flicker of cold traced my spine—how deep did their profiling go?—but I shoved it down. Algorithm magic, probably.
Real take-out arrived. She declined to join, cleared my containers without a word.
Watching her glide through my kitchen, I thought:
This might actually work.
—
That night I woke up thirsty.
Passing her door, I caught a thin, bluish stripe pulsing under the wood—screen-light flicker, tap-tap-tap, like someone texting at lightspeed.
It died the instant my floorboard creaked.
Black again.
Probably just her phone on silent, I told myself, and kept walking.
—
Next morning. 7:30 a.m.
Something was wrong.
My curtains were always half-open, sunrise slanting across the bed.
Now they were drawn tight—no gap, no light.
I opened my bedroom door—
And thought I'd stepped into a showroom.