I had already been murdered three times inside my brandnew condo.

In my first life, the killer jimmied the front door lock, dragged me into the bathroom, tortured me for hours, and methodically sawed me into pieces.

In my second life, terrified of that address, I sold the place at a devastating loss and retreated into a rundown brick walkup on the edge of town.

But late one rainy Tuesday, someone turned the brass doorknob from the outside. He violated me in the dark, dragged me to the gravel rooftop, and hurled me over the parapet.

In my third life, I thought I was being smart.

I installed a commercialgrade smart deadbolt on the condo door, disabling both the fingerprint scanner and facial recognition to prevent digital spoofing.

A randomized, twelvedigit PIN was my only salvation.

I truly believed I was untouchable—until the lock chimed with a cheery "Access Granted", and the blade found my throat once more.

That time, he carved my severed limbs into the grotesque silhouette of a rabbit, leaving the display on the manicured grass of the city's busiest park.

From somewhere above, I watched my mother—the woman who had raised me alone on graveyard shifts and cheap white bread—clutch my body bag, wailing until her vocal cords tore.

I died that third time drowning in confusion, unable to fathom how a phantom kept acquiring the keys to my life. Then I opened my eyes.

I was standing in my sunlit living room, holding my phone. It was the afternoon I brought Mom to the city to live with me.

She was perched on my velvet sofa, preening like a queen, striking ridiculous poses and barking at me to take her picture.

My skull still throbbed with the ghost of three brutal deaths. My hands shook so violently I could barely hit the shutter button.

When the preview loaded on the screen, my heart slammed against my ribs.

Hovering right across her beaming, wrinkled face was a translucent line of glowing white text: [City folks really have it made.

Don’t even need a key to open the front door!] My breath caught. Was I reading… her thoughts?

Before I could process the impossibility of it, another line materialized beneath the first, bleeding into the image, turning my blood to ice: [I’ll have to give the code to a few reliable folks later.

A girl living alone needs people looking out for her.] … "Leah, what’s the passcode to your front door again?" Three lifetimes.

For three lifetimes, I had blamed fate, cursed the city, and questioned my own sanity.

Never in my darkest nightmares had I imagined that the woman who had carried me on her back through childhood had been handing out the combination to my execution chamber.

The phantom memory of rough hands clamping over my mouth surged back—the sickening burn of lack of oxygen, the searing agony of tearing flesh, the absolute, hollow cold when my pulse stopped.

My stomach convulsed. Bile rose in my throat. "What are you standing there gaping for?

I asked you a question!" Mom snapped, shoving my shoulder with a sharp, impatient flick of her wrist.

I stared down at the screen, biting the inside of my cheek until the sharp iron tang of blood grounded me.

Opening my company’s internal portal on my phone, I submitted a sudden leave request. "I just took the rest of the week off," I said, my voice unnaturally steady. "You just got here.

I’m staying home to keep you company. Whenever you want to leave or come back, I’ll open the door." This was my final chance at survival.

I would not place the knife in anyone's hands. Mom’s face curdled instantly into a sour scowl. "What kind of nonsense is that?

You just finished your probationary period and you’re already burning PTO?

You treat money like toilet paper!" She rolled her eyes and reached out, trying to swat my phone away. "We don't keep the same hours! You sleep until noon.

If I want to walk down to the bodega for scallions at dawn, I have to wait for you to wake up? Don't be ridiculous.

Give me the code and go to work." I locked my phone screen and looked dead into her eyes. "If you want to go out, I’ll wake up and go with you. But the lock is about my safety.

I am not giving anyone the passcode." Seeing my wall of resistance, her beady eyes darted toward the entryway.

Before I could move, she darted to the door and punched a rapid sequence into the glowing touch pad. "Beep. Beep. Chime." "Access granted.

Welcome home." I froze, terror locking my joints. Mom turned, thrusting her chin in the air with sickening triumph.

She propped the heavy door open with her hip, leaning out into the tiled hallway to holler at the top of her lungs: "Treating your own mother like a burglar!

You think I didn’t watch your fingers when we got off the elevator? It’s your birthday, July twentyfourth, plus onetwothree!

You’ve used the same damn combination for everything since high school!" My scalp tightened until it felt ready to tear.

I lunged forward, grabbed her arm, and hauled her back inside, slamming the door shut. "Stop shouting my personal information into the hall!" "Look at you, jumping at shadows!" She shrugged me off, marching back to the sofa and sinking into the cushions. "Who’s standing around with their ear pressed to your door?

You think you’re so important. Always making up drama!" Exhaustion washed over me.

Knowing it was futile to argue, I used the cover of leaning against the door to quietly flip the lock's inner panel, factoryresetting the master PIN.

Behind me, her voice trilled with smug excitement: "Listen up, everybody! My Leah’s place in the city is an absolute palace! The Meridian, Unit 2103. The door code is 724123!

If any of you are passing through town, don’t bother with hotels—just let yourselves right in! Treat it like your own home!" A deafening static roared in my ears.

I spun around and ripped the phone from her grip. On the screen was a massive family group chat—eightysix members.

The messages were already cascading down like a toxic waterfall: [Wow, look at Leah, living large in the highrises!] [Good timing!

My neighbor’s cousin is visiting the city next weekend for an audition, she can crash on Leah’s couch!] [Leah, honey, this is your uncle’s childhood buddy.

Since you’re rolling in cash now, can you wire me three grand for my kid’s wedding down payment?] Half the people in this chat weren't even blood relatives; they were thirddegree acquaintances and smalltown grifters she barely knew.

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the device. "Mom... didn't I just tell you not to give out my address and code to strangers?" "What strangers?" She snatched her phone back, glaring at me sideways with open contempt. "These are people from back home!

Who among them would ever hurt you?" A crushing sense of helplessness squeezed my ribs. At least, I told myself, I had already changed the digits.

Before I could explain the reality of urban crime to her, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

The caller ID flashed "Greg Palmer"—my midlevel department supervisor, a man whose lingering handshakes and suggestive glances had made my skin crawl for months. "Leah?" His voice oozed through the speaker, coated in faux concern. "I saw your PTO notification.

Taking unscheduled time off during your trial quarter isn't a great look, you know. Is everything all right at home? You can always lean on your managers, Leah." "Mr.

Palmer, my mother just arrived from out of state, so I—" My palm went empty.

Mom had snatched the device right out of my hand, pressing it to her cheek, her tone turning sickeningly sweet. "Oh, hello there, sir! You’re Leah’s boss, right? I’m her mother!

Our little girl is all alone in this big city, working so hard. She’s at The Meridian, Unit 2103, and the door code is 724123.

If she ever needs anything, please, come by and look after her!" "Give me that!" I lunged, tearing the phone away, my heart thumping wildly against my ribs. "Mr.

Palmer, I am so sorry! My mother is confused—that is not my code, please disregard everything she just said.

I will catch up on all my deliverables remotely tonight." I hung up before he could reply, my chest heaving.

The air in the room felt poisoned. "What is wrong with you?" I screamed, the terror stripping all composure from my voice. "Are you trying to broadcast every detail of my private life to the entire world?" Startled by my sudden fury, she flinched, but her spine stiffened again a second later.

She jutted her jaw, shouting back: "You city people are so cold and secretive! Back in the county, we leave our screen doors unlatched! Neighbors look out for each other!

You have work dinners, don't you? What if you have a drink too many? Now your boss can drive you home and walk you straight to your bed!

You ungrateful little brat, I was doing you a favor!" We glared at each other across the modern, minimalist rug, the gulf between our realities wider than an ocean.

I sucked in a shaky breath, forcing down the urge to scream. "Fine. Let's go.

I’ll take you down to the market to buy groceries." "I’m not going anywhere with you!" she hissed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "You think you’re too high and mighty now.

You don't need your mother anymore!" I watched her closely.

If I left her alone in the apartment, she would fiddle with the lock within five minutes and discover the PIN had been wiped. "Mom, please," I lied, lowering my gaze to feed her ego. "I’m sorry.

I overreacted. Let's just go get some food." Seeing me yield, her face smoothed into a triumphant smirk. She stood up, smoothing her polyester blouse.

The trip downstairs was an waking nightmare. At the front desk, she leaned over the glass partition to address the day porter: "Excuse me, officer!

My daughter lives alone up in 2103. Her code is 724123.

Keep a good eye on her, won't you?" At the corner deli, sliding cash across the counter for cold cuts: "Sir, my girl is all by herself at The Meridian, 2103, code 724123.

If you have extra soup specials, just drop them right inside her kitchen!" In the elevator going back up, she cornered a delivery courier carrying stacked parcels: "Here, write this down!

This is my daughter's door code.

Next time, don't leave her boxes in the lobby, bring them straight inside!" I trailed behind her like a ghost, burning with humiliation and terror, murmuring apologies to every single person: "She’s confused, that’s not the code, please ignore her." Yet the glances they returned made ice water pool in my gut.

Discreetly, keeping my phone at waist height, I snapped quick candid shots of their faces as they smiled at my mother.

When I glanced down at the photos, the glowing white text over their images made my knees buckle: [Lives alone? Good to know. Might drop by after my shift.] [Pretty girl.

Bet she bruises easy.] [All by herself? Perfect. Next delivery comes with personal service...] Vile, predatory intentions bubbled under the surface of every polite smile.

But were any of them the methodical monster from my past lives? Who was the butcher? We reached the twentyfirst floor.

As we stepped out of the elevator, the door opposite mine clicked open. Eden Finch stepped into the corridor.

He was wearing a crisp white buttondown, sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms, gold wirerimmed spectacles resting on the bridge of a straight, elegant nose.

A resident orthopedic surgeon at the university hospital, he exuded the clean, calm competence of someone whose hands never shook.

Seeing us, his handsome features softened into an easy, neighborly smile. Mom’s eyes lit up like a slot machine.

She lunged forward to repeat her routine: "Oh, aren't you a handsome fellow! You live right across?

My daughter lives all by herself, so if you could look in on her—her door code is—" "Ma'am," Eden interrupted gently.

His voice was smooth, cultured, his blue eyes clear and earnest behind his lenses. "A young woman living on her own should never, under any circumstances, share her access code.

It's incredibly dangerous." Mom’s mouth snapped shut in stunned silence.

Without giving her a chance to recover, Eden offered me a polite, understanding nod, stepped around her, and vanished into the elevator bay. ...

That night, I tossed and turned in the dark, my mind churning through every fragment of sensory data from my past deaths. The smell of his gloves. The weight of his boots.

The cadence of his breathing. Suddenly, from the hallway, came a faint electronic sequence: "Beep... Beep...

Beep..." Then, the cold synthesized voice of the deadbolt: "Incorrect passcode. Please try again." Every hair on my arms stood on end.

Someone was standing outside my door, testing the numbers. Trembling, I crept out of bed, lifted my phone, and aimed the camera at the solid oak door through the dark living room.

I pressed the shutter. A second later, bright white text hovered directly across the wooden panel in the photo preview: [Strange.

Why isn't that working?] "Who’s out there?!" I shrieked into the darkness, rushing to the wall and slamming the red emergency call button linked to the building's front desk.

Beyond the door, muffled footsteps scrambled desperately against the hallway carpet, fading toward the fire stairs.

By the time the building security team jogged up with their flashlights and stun batons, the twentyfirst floor was dead quiet. The commotion jerked Mom from her bedroom.

Wrapped in a floral housecoat, her face was twisted with sleepdeprived fury: "What kind of damn fit are you throwing in the middle of the night?

Can’t anyone get some sleep in this house?" "Someone was trying to break in!" I gasped, pointing at the deadbolt with a shaking finger. "They were trying my code!" She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they would stick to her forehead. "Are you out of your mind?

Did the door open? No!

It was probably just some poor guy on the floor who had one too many beers and tapped the wrong number." The lead guard yawned, checking his watch with thinly veiled irritation. "Honestly, Ms.

Ernest, your mother is probably right. People mix up their floors all the time.

Since nothing happened, why don't you try to get some rest?" The memory of a gleaming boning knife slicing into my cartilage flashed across my vision.

Rage flared in my chest. "The door didn't open because I changed the code this afternoon! He just ran down the south stairwell!

Pull the security tapes right now!" The guard scowled, about to brush me off, when the door across the hall swung open again.

Eden stood in the threshold, wearing a grey cashmere sweater, his hair slightly rumpled.

Having overheard the exchange, he walked over and stood squarely beside me, his gaze fixing on the guard with quiet authority. "This building charges an exorbitant monthly amenity fee precisely for twentyfourhour perimeter security," Eden said, his tone low and dangerously even. "Ensuring resident safety isn't a courtesy; it’s your contractual obligation.

If you don't lock down the elevators and pull the corridor feeds this second, I will call the precinct captain myself." Faced with a highearning tenant threatening legal and administrative hell, the guard wilted. "Alright, alright.

Come down to the lobby." Ten minutes later, in the dim glow of the property office monitors, we watched a figure in a heavy trench coat slink down the stairwell exit. I gasped.

It was Mr. Palmer. Because the lobby doors had been locked on Eden's command, a night guard had intercepted Palmer before he could slip out into the rain.

Dragged into the office smelling heavily of singlemalt scotch, my manager sneered, trying to bluff his way through: "I just had a few drinks at the hotel bar down the street and mistook the building entrance!

It’s an honest mistake!" I stepped forward, my voice trembling with disgust. "You live in a gated suburb twenty miles west.

You took an eightydollar cab ride at midnight just to 'mistake' the twentyfirst floor of a secured residential highrise?" Trapped, Palmer's face flushed a mottled, ugly purple. "Stop playing the innocent virgin, Leah!

You had your mother text me your address and code—what was that, if not an open invitation to come up?

You walk around the office in those tailored skirts looking like a piece of candy, and now you want to play the victim?" "Crack!" A sickening crunch echoed through the small office.

Palmer’s heavy body flew backward, his skull bouncing hard against the drywall before he slumped to the linoleum, blood pouring from his split lip.

Eden calmly lowered his fist, flexing his long, surgical fingers.

His eyes were flat, terrifyingly cold. "Sorry," he murmured quietly. "The noise was getting offensive." The police arrived shortly after and hauled Palmer away in zipties for criminal trespassing and harassment.

Eden walked Mom and me back up to our floor. Outside my door, he offered a warm, reassuring smile. "I’m right across the way, Leah.

If you hear even a whisper of a sound, knock on my door. Don't be afraid." The moment the lock clicked shut behind us, Mom didn't show a shred of remorse.

Instead, she slapped her thighs in vindication. "See? What did I tell you? It pays to make friends!

If I hadn't buttered up the doctor next door this morning, would he have stepped in and put that animal in his place for you?" I turned on her, my hands balling into fists. "If you hadn't blasted my private information to a predator, none of this would have happened tonight!" Her expression hardened instantly into stubborn, defensive malice. "Flies don't land on uncracked eggs!

You must have led him on at work.

Slutting around the office and bringing shame on the family!" Even with the benefit of a second life, her toxic lack of accountability struck me like a physical blow.

She wasn't done. "Hurry up and give me the new code. I need to text it to Eden.

Now "that’s" a real man you can depend on." "Over my dead body," I whispered, fighting the bile rising in my throat. "I set the deadbolt to a rolling dynamic PIN via my banking app.

It generates a temporary, singleuse code every time it’s used. Nobody gets a permanent key.

I am not dying in this apartment." Mom gaped at me, then exploded into a shrill tirade: "Are you saying I’m trying to kill you?

I raised you by myself, sacrificed my youth, and this is how you repay me? Treating your own mother like a murderer? Fine!

You ungrateful wretch, freeze me out!" I slammed my bedroom door, cutting off her screeching. Palmer was behind bars.

Yet the deep, gnawing dread in the pit of my stomach refused to dissipate.

A pathetic, drunken corporate leech like Palmer was capable of assault, certainly—but was he the chilling, meticulous butcher who carved human flesh into ornamental hares?

It didn't fit. The apartment eventually fell into a tense, suffocating quiet. Mom had retreated to the guest room.

Driven by a terrible instinct, I crept back to the front door, lifted my phone, and pointed the lens at the dark wood once more. "Snap." My hand went limp.

The phone tumbled from my fingers, clattering onto the entryway runner.

On the glowing screen, floating in the center of the frame, was a fresh line of text: [Little bunny, little bunny, open the door... Six days left.

I will see you on our most special anniversary.] Six days. The exact day I had been butchered in my past lives. ... My heart felt as if it were being squeezed by an iron fist.

The phantom stench of copper and severed arteries rushed back into my nostrils.

I clamped both hands over my mouth to smother a scream, then threw my entire weight against the emergency panel, hitting the building siren again.

Within minutes, the security supervisor returned with two guards. They combed the carpeted hallway, the stairwells, and the elevator vestibule three times. Nothing. "Ms.

Ernest, with all due respect, you're losing your mind," the supervisor said, exasperated, showing me the tablet displaying the live feed of our floor. "From the moment you came up until this very second, not so much as a moth has crossed your welcome mat.

Look! The hallway has been completely empty. What proof do you have that someone was out there?" I stood there, speechless. What could I tell them?

That my smartphone could capture the psychic residue of a serial killer, visible only to me?

Mom leaned against her doorframe in her slippers, sneering at the guards: "Don't mind her, officers. She’s got a persecution complex.

Thinks the whole world is out to get her—she even suspects her own mother." The guards muttered their apologies and left.

Mom snorted and went back to bed, leaving me standing in the chilly foyer, shaking uncontrollably. A warm, heavy fabric settled over my shoulders.

It smelled faintly of laundry starch and hospitalgrade chlorhexidine. Eden was standing behind me.

He patted my shoulder with steady, rhythmic pressure, his voice an anchor of quiet strength: "I believe you. I'll stay up and keep watch in my living room tonight.

If you hear anything, anything at all, call me." Over the next five days, my life devolved into a waking psychosis.

I interrogated Mom relentlessly, demanding a list of every single person she had spoken to since boarding the bus to the city.

I drafted a spreadsheet of suspects, stalking the lobby, the corner market, and the parking garage, snapping clandestine photos of delivery drivers, handymen, and neighbors, scouring their floating captions for the slightest hint of bloodlust.

Nothing.

I went to the local precinct begging for a patrol car, but they turned me away: "No physical threat, no evidence, no jurisdiction." I spent eight hours a day in the HOA office, staring unblinkingly at the monitor banks until the building manager slide a business card for a grief and trauma therapist across the desk with a pitying look.

Mom’s contempt was constant: "No wonder you don't have a husband. You're completely unhinged! Out in the real world, you need connections.

Die in your little box and nobody will even find your rotting corpse! Hand over the rolling PIN permissions already!" Only Eden remained patient.

He listened to my frantic theories on the hallway landing, bringing me chamomile tea, texting me ambient whitenoise tracks when insomnia threatened to break me: "Hang in there, Leah.

I'm right across the hall." Yet every midnight, when I raised my camera to the empty, locked door, the bloody text marked the countdown: [Four days left.] [Three days left.] [Two days left.] [See you tomorrow, my little bunny.

I am shivering with anticipation.] Day seven. The day of my death. My sanity snapped.

Without packing a bag, I grabbed Mom by the wrist, dragged her down to the street, and hauled her into a cab straight to the luxury fivestar hotel downtown—a fortress with armed private guards, keycardaccess elevators, and bulletproof lobby glass.

When the concierge swiped my card for two adjoining suites at twelve hundred dollars a night, Mom lost her mind.

She threw herself onto the marble floor of the reception lounge, kicking and screeching: "Have you lost your damn mind? I won't stay here! You're not staying here either!

Cancel the charge! Get my money back!" "You don't want to stay?" I leaned down, my eyes hollow, cold, and dead. "Fine by me.

You don't have the door code to my place, so if you don't stay here, you can sleep on the sidewalk under an overpass.

That's free." Recognizing the dangerous edge in my voice, she finally scrambled to her feet, spitting curses, and followed me into the elevator.

Inside my suite, I threw the deadbolt, latched the security bar, and wedged an armchair under the handle.

The bonedeep exhaustion of seven days without real sleep finally caught up with me. I collapsed onto the kingsized mattress and sank like a stone into blackness.

I don't know how many hours passed. A frantic, deafening ring shattered the silence. I fumbled for my phone. It was Mom.

I hit answer, and her raw, shredded voice tore through the earpiece: "Leah! Help me! Oh God, Leah, he's in the house—he has a knife—"