Chapter 1: The Unexpected Knock
The knock was wrong.
It wasn’t the tentative tap of a neighbor or the relentless thud of a delivery driver. It was three confident, measured raps that cut through the synthwave playlist humming from Michael’s phone. He froze, his thumb hovering over a blurry photo of Bryce Dallas Howard at some premiere, the red dress a splash of impossible color.
He wasn’t expecting anyone. He never was.
The apartment smelled of lukewarm pizza and solitude. A blue neon sign from the laundromat across the street bled through the slats of the blinds, painting stripes across the cluttered coffee table: whiskey bottle, empty glass, a remote control buried under a week’s worth of mail.
The knock came again.
He pushed himself out of the armchair, the worn leather sighing in relief. He padded to the door, peered through the fisheye lens. The hallway was distorted, a warped tunnel of mustard-colored paint. And there, in the center of it, was a figure that made his breath hitch.
His brain stuttered, rejecting the image. It was impossible. A trick of the light, a hallucination born from cheap whiskey and too many lonely nights scrolling. He opened the door.
The air from the hallway was cool. It did nothing to clear his head.
She stood there, a silhouette against the flickering fluorescent light. Then she stepped forward, and the neon blue from the window caught her.
It was her. The hair, the unmistakable curves, the smile that was now a sharp, knowing smirk. But she was dressed in something he’d only ever seen in the deeper, dustier corners of the internet. A parody of a schoolgirl uniform, if it had been designed by a lingerie company with a tight budget and no shame. The pleated skirt was micro-short, the white shirt unbuttoned to a dangerous degree, straining against her chest. The fabric was iridescent, shimmering between purple and black as she shifted her weight.
“Michael,” she said. His name in that voice—the one he knew from talk shows and movies—was a physical thing. It vibrated in the space between them.
He couldn’t speak. His mouth was desert-dry.
Bryce Dallas Howard arched a brow,