The harsh fluorescent light of the Oakhaven Springs kitchen hummed like an angry hornet, cutting through the heavy pre-dawn silence.

The black sedan didn't move for three days, casting a psychological shadow over their fragile new beginning. On the fourth night, a sudden, sharp rap echoed against the apartment's back door—not a polite knock, but a heavy, rhythmic cadence meant to terrorize. Grace reached instinctively for the heavy iron fireplace poker, while Katherine grabbed her cell phone to dial direct dispatch. Before either could reach the door, the kitchen window shattered in a spray of razor-sharp glass. A gloved hand reached through the broken pane, throwing a small, ticking metallic cylinder directly onto the linoleum floor. “Get down!” Katherine screamed, tackling Grace behind the heavy oak dining table just as a blinding flash of white light and a deafening hiss of chemical smoke filled the room. It wasn't an explosive; it was a military-grade flashbang paired with a localized tracking canister—a calling card left by someone proving they could enter our sanctuary whenever they pleased.