"Whose idea was it to move to a place that smells like paint, old secrets, and instant noodles?" Liv asked, standing in the middle of their new apartment, sipping coffee from a chipped mug she refused to throw away.
"Yours," her mom snapped, dragging a box labeled 'bedroom crap' into the hallway.
"Exactly. I regret nothing."
Her dad appeared behind her, balancing two suitcases like gym weights. "Honestly? She's got a point. The smell is weirdly specific."
"Thank you," Liv said, smirking. "This is why you're my favorite parent."
"That's because I let you watch serial killer docs at eleven."
"You encouraged it," she corrected.
He winked. "And now my daughter could probably get away with murder."
"I'll never commit one Dad" liv said jokingly
"No, that's definitely real," her sister Yara said, wrinkling her nose. "Either the last tenant cooked weird stuff or died mid-meal."
"Or both," Liv said. "Case closed."
Their mom sighed, clearly regretting the life decisions that led to two daughters and an apartment on the 13th floor.
Dad, struggling with the couch in the hallway, grinned. "You two are gonna freak out the neighbors before we even unpack."
"We consider it community building," Yara said. Liv winked at Her.
Liv was already arranging her desk — right in the hall beside the huge sliding glass window.
"You're not putting your desk there again," Yara said, carrying a box labeled 'Yara's skincare DO NOT TOUCH.'
"I am," Liv replied, plugging in her study lamp. "If I'm going to mentally spiral, I'd prefer doing it with a view."
"She's not kidding," their dad added, walking by. "Last time she tried a wall desk, she redrew the periodic table in her own version."
"It was better organized," Liv said. "Alphabetically. Also color-coded."
1:12 AM
Everyone was asleep. Liv wasn't built for sleep.
Desk? Set up. Books? Stacked in patterns only she understood. Coffee? Cup number four.
She cracked open a fresh notebook like it was a crime scene file.
She had three tabs open on her laptop — chemistry notes, a cold case Reddit thread, and a half-watched documentary: "The Apartment 103 Files."
It wasn't background noise. It was research.
She didn't "like" true crime. She lived inside it mentally. Obsessed over it. Studied motives like they were math equations.
She whispered out loud, just for herself:
"Cleaning a crime scene with bleach is a rookie mistake. It only makes blood more detectable under Luminol."
She paused for a moment. Then asked herself:
"But what if the killer wanted the scene to be found?"
That was the thing about Liv. She never let questions go unanswered. Even if she had to chase them into uncomfortable places.
And just then—
Click.
A small, dry sound. Behind her. Right by the door.
She turned her head, slow.
The doorknob had moved.
Just a little. Like someone tested it. Not enough to open. Just… check.
But she remembers locking it properly.
She didn't move.
Didn't panic.
Instead, she whispered:
"…Bold of you to check if I'm awake."
She stood up, slowly. Coffee still in hand. Eyes locked on the door.
"Guess what? I am."
Slowly rotating the door knobs smirked while remembering her mother said not to open door at night.
Door unlocked...