Stranger Than Fiction

Prologue:
Open Doors

Summary: Being a fan isn't always easy. Meeting the object of your desire isn't all that it's hyped up to be, either. The Winchesters are certainly no exception, in any case, whatsoever. A woman must find her way back home, and endure the drama and heartbreak of the Winchester's lives. No pairings for now.

Notes: I want to scream to the heavens with how much is roiling about in my brain. I guess all I can say is that the Winchesters are just one of many voices screaming loudly for attention.

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"From this moment, every breath you take is a gift from me."
— Lara Croft, "Tomb Raider"

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"I told you for the last fucking time, I have no idea how I got into that house. I was leaving my apartment and then I suddenly wasn't!"

"Ma'am, I'm not going to ask you this again. Calm down or I'll throw you back in your cell."

"Oh, I'm sorry, officer. I'm so sorry that I'm flustered and angry and confused as to how I ended up in that family's house, got tackled by a guy who weighs almost a hundred and fifty pounds heavier than me, and then man-handled by two cops who treated my small ass like I was Jason fucking Voorhees and not an unarmed twig of a person!"

"Ma'am—"

"You know what? NO. Fuck you people! I want my fucking phone call and I want a fucking lawyer; I'm not saying anything else until I get both. Oh, actually? I want my dog too. Three things."

Officer Mendenhall pursed his lips at the obstinate woman sitting across from him. She was small of stature, just shy of five foot even by a single inch. Dark russet hair, stormy-looking blue-grey eyes and a clenched jaw so rigid, it could quite cut through glass with the way she jutted it out. She was wearing a faded green shirt with a dog's head donning goggles displayed across the front, a pair of blue jeans and what he could only assume were steel-toed boots. Overall, it was an attire he'd expect warehousemen or dock workers to wear.

The bundle of fury sitting before him looked like she was one step away from blowing up and taking anyone closest to her along for the ride. She simply shimmered with unfettered rage that actually made him bristle and want to get out of the room and away from her. Simply put, she invoked an aura of "do not fuck with me or I'll fuck you up".

Like an enraged chihuahua that thought of itself as a wolfhound.

Officer Mendenhall shot a look over his shoulder toward the one-way mirror behind him. He gave a small shake of the head as he stood and left the interrogation room.

From the other side, Detective Whitewell sighed heavily, eyes never leaving the young woman.

"Bit of a pistol, ain't she?"

This comment came from the federal officer to his left. He eyed the man with a bit of distaste. He sucked on his teeth before answering.

"And then some," he conceded with a slight nod. "But I have to wonder. What do the feds even want with her? It's just a simple B 'n E. Even if she's denying it three ways to Sunday."

"You said that there was no sign of forced entry, no kits of any kind on her person or in her bag to corroborate that. Only thing you found was a loaded gun at the bottom of her bag." This came from the other federal officer, the one on his right. Christ, the man was a giant. Both of them were, compared to him. Being a short man, he was painfully reminded of this often whenever he had to stand beside someone like these two.

I fucking hate being this short. A man shouldn't be fucking short like this. It's a woman's height.

"Honestly, I think that family neglected to lock something. A window, a back door. Hell, even the garage is a possible entry point; they got a doggie-door that feeds into the house and backyard. Surprised she ain't been bit by that rottweiler they got. That dog she had with her musta been her one saving grace. And we'll find some prints somewhere on the outer part of the house, I guarantee it."

"Do you mind if we talk to her for a bit? See if we can't loosen her up?"

"Have at it, hoss. I doubt she'll talk to any of my guys at this point. We're just about ready to throw her back in the cell. Maybe a few more days locked up will humble that temper of hers."

There was hardly enough to go off on, he would grudgingly grant that much. There have been a string of similar incidents all over town in the last several weeks, and the same story keeps racking up. A strange person ends up in someone else's house, cue the panic, cue the cops and flashing lights, and handcuffs being slapped on some poor sap's wrists.

"Great, thanks. And while we're at it, would you mind if I looked through her bag? Maybe your guys missed something."

Detective Whitewell expelled a breath through his nostrils. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can get these guys out of here.

"Yeah. Yeah, follow me. I'll take you to the evidence room."

The three men filed out of the room, one by one. The taller of the two feds followed after Detective Whitewell, while the other moved toward the interrogation room door.

In a wink, he slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him with a click. The woman startled, her chair emitting an almighty shriek as she slipped back away from the table. The handcuffs tightening around her thin wrists made certain she didn't go far. She rattled them in annoyance, teeth bared in a grimace.

"Fuck me, man. Can someone please take…these…off?"

The moment she laid her eyes on the fed, words slipped away, dissipating like fog into the air. Her gaze, once stormy and flickering with unchecked rage, quelled almost immediately. They grew wide and took on a sheen of surprise while her mouth popped open. She seemed to struggle to find words, and all that came out of her mouth was a soft squeak.

"Miss…Shackleford, is it?" He did a double take at the name on the file and his lips twitched in amusement. 'Rusty Shackleford'. "My, uh…my name's Special Agent Campbell, I'm with the FBI. I have a few questions for you concerning what happened earlier this evening."

He glanced at the stack of papers in one of his hands, skimming the police report. He shot a cursory look at the woman, back down at the report, and paused for a long moment. She was staring at him.

Intensely.

Mouth closed, but eyes still wide.

Slowly, he lowered the paperwork and shuffled on the spot, flashing a winsome smile her way.

"Do I have something on my face? What's with the look, sweetheart?"

The only thing that moved was her mouth hinging open then closed again, her eyes darting toward the one-way mirror. They slid back over to him.

"I…Is this a joke? Did…did Ashton come out of retirement for his old show? Or is this a fucking Misha prank? What the fuck is going on?"

He froze at the name 'Misha'. He's heard that name before, hasn't he? Just the sound of the name sent a cold wash of dread down the length of his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck to stand at attention. He swallowed past the painful lump in his throat, attempting to clear it up.

"That's…not what this is, ma'am. I don't know what or who you're referring to, but I—"

"I'm really not in the mood for this fucking shit, Jensen. I don't know what kind of fucking joke this is, but I don't recall signing a waiver to be on this show. So, let's cut to the chase, turn the cameras off, get this shit over with, and let me go home."

The name 'Jensen' sounded off the klaxons in his head more readily than the other name. A dose of anxiety coiled in the pit of his chest and spread out to the tips of his fingers and toes until it made him numb. If she hadn't been strapped to the table, chances were that she'd have bolted. Right then and there, like a rabbit catching sight of a fox that was stalking her.

Yes, that was it. That was the look in her eye.

She was looking at him like he was a predator, intent on taking her down like meek prey. The defiant spark in her eye had all but vanished, replaced by the shine of something else. She wasn't just angry. She was fucking terrified.

"Just…just get me out of here, man. I swear, I have no fucking clue what's going on. Christ, if I have to, I'll sign a waiver or whatever, I won't talk about this shit—"

"Miss Shackleford, please. Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" She barked back, teeth baring in a grimace. Her fist pounded on the metal table, and he hated that he flinched. Everything about this entire scene just felt wrong in so many ways. There was a wild light kindling inside her gaze now, frantic and incensed. "I am seriously fucking freaked out right now, and I just want to get the fuck out of here!"

She rattled the handcuffs that kept her pinned to the table, desperation written in her jittering frame. She kept babbling on but suddenly ground to a stop, her jaw clicking shut as he raised his free hand to her and tossed the papers onto the steel tabletop.

"Stop. Just…stop." He took a breath. "Breathe. And start at the beginning. Like how you know that name—and don't lie to me. It'll piss me off more and you don't want to see that happen. Trust me."

The woman sucked in a breath stuttered, shaky inhalation. Her hands were trembling, making the cuffs rattle noisily on the table. He could see her exposed arms pimpling with gooseflesh, hairs standing upright from the chill in the room. Her jaw slowly returned to a clench, muscles straining tautly, and obstinate defiance was making a triumphant comeback.

"I'm not doing this anymore. This? This right here? This is bullshit. Where the fuck is the camera crew? Huh? Behind that mirror? Watching us from those cameras up there?"

She tilted her head, pointing with her chin at the corners of the room behind him. He tilted his head just enough to catch sight of the cameras staring them down. His irritation was starting to spike upward, nipping at the edges of his patience.

"Lady, I honestly don't have a clue as to what you're referring to. I'm here because you decided to get your jollies off by breaking into a family's house, scaring everyone shitless, and getting caught by the cops. Now, we can do this the easy way and you tell me everything you know. Or we can do this the hard way, where we let you rot in jail for the foreseeable future, without bail or hope of seeing the sun again. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. Work with me, and maybe I can be your get out of jail card."

He leveled her with a dark gaze the entire time he spoke. She met him with a defiant glare of her own, unwilling to back down. Despite the nervous shakes she seemed to be riddled with, he had to hand it to her: she was taking the hits he doled out like a champ.

After a few tense seconds of silent standoff, the woman leaned forward slowly, and very carefully enunciated two words to him unflinchingly: "Fuck. You."

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"So? Any luck?"

"No. She only rattled off the same story she told the cops, the one that's in the police report. Says she walked right in the middle of the house she allegedly broke into—one minute not there, the next she was—got wrestled down by the husband, arrested by the cops. Same M.O. as the others the cops talked with. The ones we can't find."

"Nothing else?"

Dean took pause at the inquiry from his brother and glanced his way. "There was something else," he finally conceded, returning his gaze back to the road ahead.

"What was it?" Sam pressed stringently.

"She called me Jensen."

He could see from the corner of his eye Sam's brows raising, jaw going slightly slack.

"That's…"

"Yeah. I know. The name of that actor. The one that plays me from that other universe. The friggin' douchebag."

"You don't think…she might be from there, do you?"

Dean snorted. "I don't know what to think at this point, but that seems to be the case as far as I'm concerned. She mentioned that other guy…what's-his-name…the guy who looked like Cas. Mita or something like that."

"Misha."

"That's it. That's the one. Yeah, she mentioned him too."

"And we just left her there, because…?" Sam pressed, his voice trailing off expectantly.

"Because we have no idea what we're dealing with, and if she is from that place, I don't feel like babysitting her or holding her hand the entire time. Something brought her here, and the sooner we find out what it is, the sooner we can send her on her way back."

"What about the others?"

"They got released. She's just the latest in a string of arrests with similar records, and once they left the station on bail, they vanished. Hard to say where they went or if they're even still around. Maybe they made their own way back to where they think they belonged."

The implications tantalized the mind, teasing him relentlessly with the darkest of thoughts, the worst ideas. Dean decided to pursue the line of questioning, regardless of the answer.

"And is there any record of where they might be now?"

"No. Any attempts to follow-up with them, any court dates they should have showed up for but didn't, it ended up with nothing in the end. Dean, if we want answers for this case, we might just need to get her out, because she's the only person we can follow-up with right now."

"That's convenient. You sure there isn't some secret hobo bohemian paradise these guys are hiding out in? Pretty sure every decent sized town has them, full of homeless and squatters, looking to squeak by."

"No. There are none. Which…is actually kind of strange, now that I think about it. That cop, the one I went with into the evidence room…even he said it was strange. Not a lot of homeless in this town. Not in recent months. Even the known locals have been scarce."

Dean gave pause at the information Sam had just presented to him. "That…kind of is strange," he admitted with a bob of the head. "But there's plenty of places that have little to no homeless populations, right?"

"Not really. If anything, the lack of homeless is a lot more alarming than anything. It's almost as if they're just…disappearing."

"So, the question remains pretty much the same," Dean pressed on. "Where are they all going, what's happening to them, and what connection do they have to these weird B n' E's that have been popping up all over town."

Sam puffed out a long sigh, his brow beetling together. "That really is the question," he agreed, a flare of exasperation and annoyance colouring his tone.

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A Day Ago…

"Let me get this straight. I need a referral on top of the original referral I got from my primary in order to see the facility I want to go to for my medical consult, but I can't do that, until I see my primary again to redo my referral?"

Truly, the mind boggled at the convolutedness of the concept, and yet Shay could untangle the ridiculous mess with terrifying clarity and ease. She could feel her temper coming to a head, but she simply gritted her teeth and tried to keep her voice as level as possible.

Piss off the front desk clerks at the VA hospital and they could ban you from the place.

The man behind the desk clattered away on his keyboard, boredom painting his countenance. When he finished, he leaned back in his swivel office chair, a raised brow lifting at Shay.

"Unfortunately, that's how the referral system works out here. I know you're new to us and all—"

"Actually, I'm not new. Not to the VA, anyways. What is new is this incredibly complicated mess you call a 'system'. See, what I'm used to is sending a message to my primary when I can call in, and the wrong referral? It gets corrected. But the place you lot want to send me to is almost two and a half hours away, and the place I would prefer to go to is a helluva lot closer to where I live. I shouldn't have to come in for a pointless appointment with my primary just to fix up what you guys fucked up in the first place."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but you have to understand that my hands are tied. You need to make an appointment to see your primary to alter your referral."

"And when is my primary available?"

"According to my calendar…about a month from now."

Shay could practically hear the war drums in her head beating in tune with her elevated heart rate and saw fringes of red peppering her vision. The image of ripping the desk clerk a new one flashed across her mind. The grim satisfaction and wishful thinking cooled her temper just a little.

"I need…that referral…today. Not a month from now. I'm in pain and you lot don't seem to much care just how many times I end up in the ER because that fucking pain has been coming along more frequently in the last month alone."

The clerk held her with a firm, steadfast intensity as he spoke slowly, as if Shay was hard of hearing. Or perhaps like she was too dawdling to understand.

"I am sorry to hear that, but like I said, my hands are tied. Your primary isn't available for another several weeks, as are the other doctors. You'll just have to take what you can get."

It took all of five minutes for Shay to stalk through the halls of the hospital and another three or so to walk through the parking structure to get to her truck. It wasn't until she was sitting in the driver's seat, key in the ignition, that she felt she could actually breath. The tightness in her back burned with a vengeance as it ached and throbbed. Every agonizing wave pulsated, lingering for minutes at a time.

She was sorely tempted to walk right back into the VA hospital and head for the ER.

And waste half a day in there that I haven't lost already, waiting to be seen and only to be told I need to speak with my primary for long-term care. I've already taken the day off from work for this crap. Christ al-fucking-mighty.

She gripped the steering wheel so tightly, her joints began to hurt, and her knuckles turned white. It was cheaper to visit the VA than it was dropping in on her local hospital. At least at the VA, she wouldn't end up with an overpriced bill a few weeks after the fact.

If she had any better options, Shay would have jumped ship in a heartbeat.

She eyed the brown paper sack that had her meds inside it, sitting in the passenger seat next to her. She tore it open, grabbing at the bottles within, and upon finding the right one, she popped its top off and slipped a pill out.

She downed it in a gulp and washed away the bitter, powdery taste with some water that sat in the cupholder. Five minutes later, and she was on the road, driving down a familiar path back from whence she came.

She was tired, point blank and straightforward.

Tired of dealing with her whole lot in life at this point. Tired of being dealt a bad hand. Tired of everything. She was always 'too late' or 'too early'. She always seemed to miss the open window for a golden opportunity.

What's a girl gotta do to get a stroke of good luck, huh?

Finding the answer wasn't working out, so instead of continuing to wallow in self-pity, she turned up the volume on the radio, letting herself get lost in the lyrics of a classic rock song blaring out of her speakers.

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Home wasn't really the home that Shay wanted, but given that beggars couldn't be choosers, she had to make do. The apartment she lived in was of similar floor plans as the one she had once lived in as a child. A tiny kitchen, a moderate living room, a second-floor patio, two small bathrooms including a suite to the master, and two other little rooms. One of them, she turned into her art and computer room. The other, storage. The master was, predictably, her own.

Dinner was a simple meal of chicken alfredo, made from scratch. Noodles, heavy cream, chicken. Easy-peasy. The taste of it was soured by her long and unprosperous day wasted trying to get through to the knuckleheads at the hospital.

Night fell with languid ease, sneaking up on Shay before she realized it had even arrived. Her dog Kosmo was more in tune with the time and roused her attention before long.

Shay shot a look between him and the front door, blinking slowly as she diverted her attention away from the movie she wasn't even really watching.

"Shit. You need to go potty, bud?"

Kosmo tilted his head at her; the slight tick he gave was a telltale sign. She sighed as she rolled off the couch and onto her feet. Kosmo's mouth pried open into a happy, tongue-lolling grin as he jittered on the spot by the door.

"All right, all right, just calm down. I got you, dude."

She yawned as she grabbed his leash and clipped it onto his collar before opening the door.

Crickets chirped quietly as Shay led the way down the steps to ground level, and from there, Kosmo led the way to the grass. She let him sniff around and do his business and when he finished, they trotted back up the flight of stairs to the apartment.

What she came back to was missed calls and texts from family, mostly, and a few friends to boot. Any social media she had going on, she hadn't been working through. She had been avoiding it for the last few days now, going almost a week. Increasing urgency was plaintive in their tones toward the end. Shay hardly had the energy to respond, even something as simple as telling people she was fine.

It was easy to disconnect, as much as Shay hated admitting to it. It made curling up in solitude easier. Running on autopilot was just as easy. Eat, sleep, shit, shower. Rinse and repeat. The stray thought regarding how she hated how automatic her life has become replayed on the same tracks too. Wake up. Get ready. Drive. Work. Drive again. Rinse and repeat.

Monotonous and predictable.

Maybe I should just go to Vegas. I haven't been since my twenty-first birthday.

The idea made her snort aloud, and she shook her head.

Wishful, spontaneous ideas that would never come to fruition. Just like her career. Or her attempts at starting up her career, anyways.

Lackluster artist. Below average animator. A no-name nobody. A fucking loser who couldn't make it in the industry. And writing is going as crappy as it always has.

It was hard to dispel the negative thoughts, especially when she now knew the medications meant to help her weren't working. She would have to make yet another appointment, with another doctor, to adjust her medications. If they even agreed with her at all and simply told her to give it more time.

That was everybody's go-to excuse these days.

"Give it more time."

I should call Ana. Or Angie.

Those thoughts kept playing on a loop. Over and over and over again.

Ugh. Get your head out of your ass already, lady. Not everything is doom and gloom and 'woe is me', Shakespeare-style. Idiot.

She needed, more than anything, for something to go right in her life. At the very least, a better paying job and perhaps a doctor who could actually help. Pain medications and mood modifiers could make a world of difference. Not being in pain most of the time would especially improve her temperament significantly. Hell, even a little bit of weed would be loads better than being hopped up on opiates.

Not being in constant pain would especially be nice to experience.

Shay shook her head.

Head out of ass. Head out of ass.

She forced herself to answer texts. Sent some to those who hadn't contacted her through text but through calls that she missed. It was less about her own comfort and more about the comfort of those she loved and cared for.

Because damn it, she wasn't going to be the complete and utter asshole who left everyone hanging just because she was having an off day. Or an off week or month or…year. I am not going to be as big an ass as Ross from Friends. I'd rather be Phoebe. Eclectic, eccentric, and just a tad flakey.

The hours dragged, and as the night deepened, she sank a little bit deeper into a cup of Jack and coke, refilling her glass every other hour or so until it was nearly one in the morning. By that time, it was very nearly silent once she turned off the television and sat on the couch, simply listening.

It was peaceful…up until her dog began barking and trotted toward the door, the deep boom of his voice resounded across the empty and quiet relative stillness she sat in. Before she could tell him to back off, a sonorous knock at her apartment door startled her.

Shay flinched, her heartbeat kicking it up a notch or two. She sat up straighter, alert and on edge. Kosmo's hackles bristled and he stalked closer to the front door, barking like mad. Shay jumped, alarmed at the sudden bout of aggression he was suddenly displaying. She tried to shush him, and the longer it went on, without reprieve toward her commands, her worry grew. It came to a head when she barely touched him on his backside, and he snapped at her, teeth flashing, jaws clacking noisily, his eyes dark and flashing.

Shay jumped back with a loud gasp, stumbling until she gained her balance, hand snatched back as though he had just sunk his teeth into her.

She checked her hand and seeing no damage, she looked back at Kosmo. He had returned to barking at the door. It was then that she shuffled back even more. Shay trusted his instincts more than her own, buzzed or sober. It sent her own hackles bristling. It was better late than never.

Carefully, she tiptoed around Kosmo and toward the little table that sat close by the front door. Gently, she eased one of the slat drawers open, and pulled out a small 9mm pistol hidden within. After checking the chamber, she flicked the safety off as she moved toward the peephole, eyeing the second-floor landing outside. Kosmo tried to nudge her aside, but she bumped her hip into him, and that briefly shut him up.

There was no one there, and there was no evidence of anyone leaving either. It was completely empty on the landing.

Pursing her lips, Shay's hands fumbled to unlock the door, trying not to focus on how fast her heart was beating away behind the backs of her ribs, pounding away a tattoo imprint as it raced. The last of the locks fell away and Shay pried the door open, just enough to look around. There was no one hidden in the corners, no dark entity, no shady figure on her doorstep.

However, there was a small, plain, unmarked package sitting on her doorstep mat. It was curious. She didn't recall seeing a package when she got home.

Kosmo attempted to wedge himself between Shay and the front door to propel himself forward to go outside. Shay scowled and drove him back, and without thinking, pushed the door open enough to stoop over and scoop up the package. All the while, she kept snapping at the German shepherd to get back. The slam of the front door echoed like a gun going off, the noise ringing in her ears. Short, but painful. Shay stared at the package in her hands. She turned it over and over in her hands, trying to find a mailing label with her name on it, a return address.

Anything.

There was nothing, but she could feel something with considerable weight shifting about inside. Her brows beetled together as she took it to the kitchen counter and produced a knife from a drawer to cut it open. She sliced up the taped edges, old habit hitting home in the right places.

She stopped upon seeing the red that painted the inside of the box. Shay all but scrambled away from the package, as though it had just shocked her. Her throat was desert dry, itching like sandpaper when she tried to swallow, to breathe. She tiptoed closer, craning her head to look at the package's innards. She could smell the sharp tang of copper, could clearly see what the red substance within really was.

"Oh, fuck me."

There was something else inside, besides the blood that coated the package's innards. Shay's hand shook as she reached inside and plucked the singular solid object up by the tips of her thumb and forefinger.

Surprise rippled through her, cold and bracing, as she swung around to the sink and turned the faucet on. Water poured over the object, cleansing it from its soiled container. Gold glinted in light of the kitchen, flashing bright and chipper as she scoured it. After studying it as the object became clean, it took her longer to realize that it wasn't just a simple decorative piece, but it was a key.

The ornate filigree along the bow was beautifully crafted and the main sculptured motif bore the resemblance of a bird. The head of the bird had a feathered crest displayed above it, and behind its wings and body were finely crafted circular rings. Within each ring between the spaces were swooping lines of blackened metal shot through with veins of gold arced in strange little patterns, almost like a language of perfect symmetry. Its wings finished off the lower half of the rings, each layer of finely detailed feathers holding a sparkling piece of precious stones.

Shay rubbed off as much of the blood that had dried in the cracks as best she could, squinting her eyes and twisting the object over in her hands. Long tailfeathers made of the same black metal as the rings coiled down around the shaft in a spiral, ending just above the teeth of the key. The tailfeathers also featured golden lines, alluding to its broken past.

Shay vaguely recalled the art of using gold to repair pottery, the art of kintsugi. The key itself felt much heavier than any piece of pottery she has ever held. Someone had obviously put care into its reparations. And a part of her doubted the pieces of precious stones were fakes of any sort, it simply oozed an aura of lavish authenticity.

All in all, the bird itself looked like a peacock, gorgeously rendered that held both a simplistic and equally elaborate design. The craftsmanship was absolutely stunning, and at the same time, it also looked expensive. Shay had a gut feeling it would perfectly at home in a museum rather than in a grubby, blood-filled box sitting on her doorstep in the middle of the night.

Why was it left on my doorstep? Who does that kind of shit? And why am I getting Keyblade vibes from this fucking thing?

It was a fair question, and yet it was also a mystery that she had no answers to, only more questions. It all spiraled downward to one thought: something bad had happened and she did not feel like being caught in the middle.

Someone dropped it off here for a reason and I don't like any of those possibilities. Does that mean someone's watching me, right now?

She could almost taste bile as she caught another whiff of the coppery tang perfuming the air. It was equal parts alarming as it was disturbing. Kosmo's soft whine brought Shay's attention crashing back down and she whipped her head in his direction.

"Hey, baby. I think we should get out of here. This is getting too funky for me. What do you say, huh? Go for a little car ride through town?"

She had said the magic words. Kosmo barked twice at her and rushed toward the front door, tail wagging furiously and tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. It was as though he had never growled and bit at her minutes ago. Her happy mutt.

Shay placed the key on the counter and dried her hands. After that, she set to work. She scurried through her apartment, throwing clothes into a duffle bag, computer and tablet and charging cords into a backpack, and a few other essentials as well such as her hygiene kit and a few books. The gun from the front door table was shoved into her bag, after a few moments of quiet deliberation. She piled her bags up by the door, snagged Kosmo's leash up and clipped it to his collar. She hesitated, with keys in hand, phone and wallet in pocket, all ready to go. She eyed the kitchen, where the box of blood and the decorative key sat.

Shay surged with purpose back into the kitchen, swiping up the bird-key into her hands and shoved it into her backpack. At the same time, she yanked her phone out from her pocket, hand shaking as she dialed nine-one-one. The dial tone cycled through for one or two rings before the call went through. A woman on the other line answered.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

"Uh…um, yeah. Someone just…left a package on my doorstep a few minutes ago. No return address, no name, nothing. I didn't see anyone, or-or anything. there was just a knock at my door and then I went to check and there was blood inside it. I don't even know if it's human or animal."

"Ma'am, what is your address?"

"Uh, right. Right." Shay had to suck in a deep breath to calm herself before she rattled off her address. "It's in a multi-building apartment complex. My building is closest towards the back on the righthand side. One of the last buildings, wedged into a corner. I think I'm going to go to my brother's though. This is giving me all sorts of heebie-jeebies."

The woman on the other line was surprisingly patient as she walked Shay through the motions, providing an aura of calm and collectiveness and direction for her to follow. The police were on their way. As much as she disliked the cops, going John Wick to get to the bottom of things would land her in jail or worse. Shay threw her pack onto her back, and slung her duffle onto the other shoulder, and lastly wound Kosmo's leash tightly around her hand.

"I'm stepping out right now, I don't think it's a good idea for me to stick around."

"Ma'am, I'd really advise against that. Just stay put and wait—"

"Dude, I get why you want me to stay, but I don't think I feel safe in my apartment right now. Whoever dropped this at my door clearly and obviously knows I live there. They could be watching me. Please, just…the cops can come talk to me at my brother's place but I ain't sticking around."

"Ma'am—"

Shay opened her front door, stepping past the threshold—

—and the phoneline went dead, buzzing with the dreaded disconnected beeping signal. The woman's voice was gone. And so was Shay's apartment complex.

All the warm, yellow lights of her home all but vanished in the wink of an eye, replaced by the dingy greys and blacks and blues of a deep night, shadows painting every corner and space they could reach. It took almost a minute for Shay's eyes to adjust and figure out her new surroundings.

She was standing in the middle of a hallway, the lights off, the ticking of a clock echoing in the near silence. If she strained her ears enough, she could just barely make out the chirrups of crickets coming from somewhere outside. Her entire body tingled unpleasantly as the chill in the air caught up with her. Shay shuttered violently and drew her arms in closer. Kosmo whined at her, but the sound cut off sharply, devolving into a low growl. Before she could reestablish her grip on his leash, he charged headfirst into the dark, claws scrabbling like mad on hard floors.

Alarm bolted through her at the announcement of a second dog barking, just as deep and booming in voice. Probably just as big, too.

Lights suddenly flared on, blinding Shay and before she could tell what was going on, someone tackled her from behind, slamming her to the ground and pinning her there. Everything happened so fast. She heard a man shouting from on top of her, a meaty hand shoving her face into the floor. He squeezed her skull and neck, making it all that much harder to struggle, to get free. She was trapped under the weight of her bags and the man sitting atop her.

Twenty minutes later of futile struggling, she was getting hauled up by two uniformed officers, and frog marched out of a house that certainly wasn't hers with cuffs slapped on her wrists. She was then practically tossed into the back of a squad car, lights flashing and igniting up a suburban neighborhood that she most certainly didn't recognize. She didn't know what they did with Kosmo or where he was.

The only thing she knew without a doubt was she was no longer at home, and that she had no clue what the hell was going.

Story of my fucking life.

OoOoOoOoOoO