The house felt smaller every day.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by canvases she couldn't finish. Black paint dominated—thick, aggressive strokes that started as cityscapes and devolved into something more chaotic. Fractured buildings. Shattered glass. Dark figures in corners that she didn't remember painting.
Three weeks since the incident. Three weeks since security pulled her off Delaney's bleeding body. Three weeks since she'd looked down at her crimson knuckles and felt satisfied.
The charges were still pending. Assault. Battery. Her lawyer said they might settle—Delaney was a "public figure," the incident was "provoked," Elena had "documented mental health struggles" they could use.
She picked up her pencil, tried to sketch. The lines came out jagged, violent. Her hand was steady. Too steady.
She set the pencil down.
Her apartment faced a busy street—she'd always liked the energy, the noise, the proof that life continued outside her small space. But lately, the street felt different. Watched.
There was a woman in a coffee shop across the street who'd been there every morning this week. Same table. Same laptop. Never actually drinking the coffee.
There was a man who walked past her building twice a day, always at 7 AM and 6 PM, always looking up at her window.
There was a car that parked in the same spot, three days running, engine idling.
Elena stood at the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. She wasn't afraid. She was furious.
Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number. She answered this time.
Elena's grip on the phone tightened.
Elena hung up. Threw the phone onto the couch hard enough that it bounced.
Five minutes later, another call. Different number. Same magazine.
She turned her phone off.
She went to the window, looked down at the street. The woman in the coffee shop was still there. Still not drinking. Still staring up.
Elena didn't flinch back. She stared down, unflinching, until the woman shifted uncomfortably and looked at her laptop.
But then the woman pulled out her phone, aimed it upward, and took a photo.
Elena's hands curled into fists against the windowsill. The wood groaned under her grip.
She grabbed her jacket, her keys. Not because she was scared. Because if she stayed in this apartment one more minute, she was going to put her fist through the window.
The park. She'd go to the park where she used to sketch. Somewhere she could move, breathe, think about anything other than the satisfying crunch Delaney's nose had made.
She stopped at her building's entrance.
The man who walked past twice daily was standing across the street. Pretending to check his phone. But his eyes flicked up every few seconds.
Elena stared at him. Didn't look away. Didn't blink.
He started moving. Away. Fast.
Elena stopped herself. Breathed. Turned the opposite direction.
Behind her, different footsteps matched her pace.
She didn't speed up. Didn't show anything. Just walked, fists clenched in her jacket pockets, nails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt.
She turned a corner. The footsteps followed.
She ducked into a bookstore, not hiding—just giving herself walls, boundaries, a reason not to turn around and handle this the way her body wanted to.
She emerged onto a different street. Checked behind her.
A camera clicked.
Click.
Elena's hands were out of her pockets now. The muscle memory was immediate—collar grab, wall slam, fists coming down. She could see exactly how it would go. How easy it would be.
The woman's smile faltered slightly.
Elena forced herself to stop. To breathe. To unclench her fists one finger at a time.
The camera clicked behind her. Once. Twice. Three times.
By the time Elena made it back to her apartment, her jaw ached from clenching. Her hands hurt from how hard she'd kept them fisted.
Inside, she locked the door. Both locks. The chain. Not because she was afraid.
She pulled out her phone. Turned it on.
Seventeen missed calls. All from numbers she didn't recognize.
She hit send before the anger could make her do something stupider.
Elena looked around her small apartment—the unfinished canvases, the black paint, the windows she hadn't bothered to curtain because she didn't hide.
She grabbed a bag, started throwing in clothes. Toothbrush. Sketchbook.
Her hand hovered over the sketchbook. She opened it to a random page.
Faces. She'd drawn faces. Dozens of them. All the same face, from different angles.
Delaney's face.
Elena closed the sketchbook and shoved it in the bag. No shame. Just fact.
Outside, a car engine started. The same car that had been parked there for three days.
She went to the window. Didn't peek. Just stood there, visible, as the car pulled away.
In the driver's seat—a man with a camera on the passenger seat, lifting it to take one more shot of her building.
She didn't move. Just let him take the photo. Let him see her seeing him.
Elena sat on her couch, bag packed, windows uncovered, and waited.
Twenty minutes felt like hours.
Delaney smiled and typed back: Follow her. I want to know where she goes.
And Elena Volkov, who'd spent three weeks trying to convince herself she regretted what she did, sat in her apartment and felt the anger building.
Because some cycles never break.