Something's Off (A Slowburn NTR)

CHAPTER 1: THE NEW NEIGHBORHOOD

The ad had made it sound like paradise.

"Safe locality. Peaceful neighbors. Ideal for couples."

The pictures were bright--sunlit lanes, trimmed hedges, families walking hand-in-hand. We were tired of the noise, of the constant clamor of city life. This was supposed to be a new chapter.

When we arrived, though, the air felt... heavy.

The street was eerily quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with peace--this was a watching kind of quiet. Like the walls were waiting to breathe. Like someone was already looking.

She stepped out of the car first.

Tight jeans hugging her hips, a loose shirt tucked at the waist, her curves effortlessly seductive even when she wasn't trying. And she never did. That was just her. My wife had a body that turned heads--full hips, a narrow waist, and a softness that made her look both innocent and dangerous at once. I loved how she looked. But here, under these eyes... I wasn't so sure.

I climbed out with a box in hand. That's when I saw him.

Across the street--an old man slouched in a faded plastic chair, nothing but a thin vest barely clinging to his shoulders and sagging underwear. He was still. Too still. His gaze, low and unblinking, was fixed on her hips as she bent over to pick up a dropped bag.

There was no shame in his stare. Just hunger.

I stepped in his line of sight, glaring.

Nothing. He didn't even blink.

I turned back to her. She had noticed. Her jaw tightened. But she didn't say a word--just straightened up and walked inside, the sway of her hips slowing slightly, as if she wanted to make it less obvious.

Or maybe she knew it didn't matter anymore.

As we carried boxes in, the illusion unraveled. The house looked decent on the surface, but every step revealed something a little off--paint that peeled when touched, locks that clicked but didn't really lock, windows that wouldn't fully shut.

Outside, kids--barely in their teens--sat on the sidewalk with cigarettes in hand and filth in their mouths.

"Hey a**hole, get me one too!" one screamed to another, punching his friend's arm.

They were laughing, fighting, spitting.

And not a single adult in sight.

Two men passed by around noon. Mid-twenties, tank tops sticking to their sweaty torsos. They weren't talking. They were gazing.

At her.

She was adjusting the doormat at our entrance, the stretch of her leggings pressing against her thighs, shirt rising just slightly to reveal the small of her back.

I watched them watching her. They didn't look away.

She did glance at them--just once. Her eyes flicked toward theirs, caught the stare, and moved on. No confrontation. No expression. Just that practiced indifference women wear when they're used to being watched.

That was the worst part.

She was used to it.

But I wasn't used to her ignoring it.

I wanted to say something. Maybe I should've.

That evening, as the sun sank behind the dusty rooftops, we sat inside, eating takeout on the floor, still surrounded by unopened boxes. I kept watching the front window, half-expecting another figure to be peering in.

She leaned back, her chest rising under the soft cotton of her tee, legs folded comfortably, hair messy from the move. She looked like a woman in a magazine--unknowingly seductive, effortlessly magnetic.

And yet, something in her eyes felt distant.

"Do you feel it too?" I asked.

She looked at me, puzzled. "Feel what?"

"This place... it's different."

She was quiet for a second, then shrugged. "Maybe we just need to give it time."

But she didn't believe that. I could see it in the way she avoided my eyes. In the way she stayed close to me, but not with me.

That night, lying beside her in our barely-made bed, I kept my arm around her waist. Her skin was warm. Soft. Comforting.

But my mind kept going back to the old man's stare.

The way those men had looked at her.

The fact that she didn't say a word.

Something was off.

Not just with this place. With her. With us.

Or maybe I was just overthinking it.

Maybe it was the stress of the move, the unfamiliar streets, the eyes that felt more invasive because everything was new.

She was right.

We probably do need to give it some time.

So I closed my eyes, pulled her a little closer, and told myself to let it go.

Just for tonight.

CHAPTER 2: THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

By morning, I had almost convinced myself I'd overreacted. The neighborhood couldn't be that bad, right? We'd probably just caught a few weird moments yesterday. Moving stress, unfamiliar faces -- maybe it was clouding my judgment.

"Let's visit the neighbors," I said, pouring her tea. "Would be a nice gesture."

She agreed with a small nod, tying her apron over a fitted cream t-shirt and a navy skirt that hugged her ass too naturally. Her style was simple, typical -- soft tones, neatly tied hair, not a hint of makeup yet she radiated something magnetic without trying.

As she stepped ahead of me with the fruit basket in hand, the movements of her ass made me want to grab them but I looked away. This was not the time.

We rang the doorbell next door. After a few seconds and some rustling sounds from inside, the door creaked open. And there he was -- an old man in a stained shirt and sagging boxers, the smell of mildew and something stronger drifting out from behind him.

His smile stretched unnaturally as his eyes landed on my wife, pausing there, soaking her in with zero effort to hide it.

"We're from next door," I said, a little awkwardly, "Just wanted to say hello. We brought some fruit."

"Come in, come in," he said immediately, waving us inside with a little too much enthusiasm.

I glanced at her, unsure. She gave a polite, almost hesitant smile, and we stepped inside.

The house was a disaster -- cluttered furniture, the lingering scent of something rotting in the air, walls stained from years of being ignored. My regret was instant.

We sat across from him in the small, dimly lit living room while he asked us strange, shallow questions and shared long-winded stories about people neither of us knew. I pretended to listen, but I was distracted. He wasn't talking to me. Not really.

Every time she moved -- adjusting her t-shirt, smoothing her skirt -- his gaze followed, always slipping back to her legs, her chest, the curve of her ass when she shifted. He didn't even blink when he stared. Just watched, as if enjoying every inch with the hunger of a man who no longer cared about hiding it.

She noticed it too. I could tell by the way her posture stiffened. But she said nothing. Maybe out of politeness. Or discomfort.

After nearly twenty minutes, I stood. "We should get going. Still settling in."

The old man rose with us, moving slower, but with a strange anticipation on his face. "Ah... before you go. Here, we have a custom. A parting hug for guests -- makes good fortune stick around."

I forced a smile and stepped forward. His embrace was quick, his arms surprisingly firm for someone his age, but I pulled back almost instantly. I turned toward the door, assuming she would follow right behind.

But instead, he stepped closer to her, his eyes half-lidded. "And from the lady of the house," he murmured, voice lower now, "a proper one."

She hesitated for just a second too long.

Then, softly, she stepped forward.

His arms wrapped around her slowly, his hands resting on her back -- one of them pressing a little too low. His face leaned near her neck, the grab was too strong for her to even make a movement. She stood frozen, her arms half-raised, unsure of where to place them.

Then I saw it -- the subtle flex of his hand, fingers pressed just above the curve of her rear, not quite touching indecently... but close. Too close. His cheek brushed against her hair, and for a second, he simply held her, breathing her in.

Her face was unreadable. She didn't pull away, but she didn't lean in either.

I cleared my throat loudly.

The old man smiled as he released her, letting his hand trail off her waist just a fraction slower than necessary.

She was breathing heavily -- hair soaked, face flushed. The smell of the old man lingered on her -- uninviting and unforgettable.

"Lovely to meet you both," he said, as if nothing strange had happened.

We stepped out in silence. Her hands adjusted her skirt. Mine curled into fists.

I didn't say anything on the way back.

But something about that hug -- how long he held her, the way his hand lingered -- played again and again in my mind.

She hadn't said a word.

And that silence was starting to feel louder than anything else.

CHAPTER 3: SEEDS OF DOUBTS

The door shut behind us with a click that sounded louder than it should've. We walked back in silence, the chill in the afternoon air doing little to cool the strange warmth still lingering in my chest -- not the kind of warmth that comes from comfort, but from unease.

I wanted to say something. Just a line -- Did that feel... off to you? -- but every time I opened my mouth, her calm face told me not to. She was walking beside me like nothing had happened. As if that stinking, too-tight hug from the old man hadn't happened. As if his hand hadn't hovered near her ass longer than any polite gesture should allow.

Back inside our home, she slipped off her slippers and walked into the kitchen.

"Next time," she said casually, pulling her hair back into a bun, "we take candles. That place needs them more than fruits." She giggled, almost too perfectly.

I chuckled back, forcing it.

The air in our home was warm and inviting, just the way we'd wanted it. Still, I couldn't help but feel like we had dragged in something... unpleasant from outside. I tried to shake it off. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe she was right -- first impressions aren't everything. Maybe the hug was just... cultural? Maybe?

That evening, we went out to catch a film -- a soft romantic drama, one of those "moving to a new life" types. Fitting. She laughed at all the right moments, leaned into me during the slow ones. Her fingers occasionally found mine in the dark. For a while, it felt like nothing had changed. For a while, I let go.

The walk back was quiet, hand in hand. The moonlight hung low over the neighborhood, and most houses were already dark -- curtains drawn, lights dimmed.

But one house, the third one from the corner was very much awake.

As we passed it, the night was broken by something strange. A rhythmic, primal sound. Then a sharp gasp. Then moans -- unmistakably a woman's -- spilling through the thin walls, raw and unfiltered. The kind that aren't just loud... but intentional. Like they wanted someone to hear.

My wife froze mid-step, her fingers stiffening around mine. Her eyes darted forward -- not toward the house, but ahead, like she was pretending not to notice. Her cheeks flushed pink, and without saying a word, she quickened her pace, almost pulling me along.

I looked back at the window. A dim light glowed behind the curtain, swaying gently as if something was rocking inside.

"Shameless people," I muttered.

She didn't respond.

Back home, she moved about normally. Took off her cardigan. Poured water into a glass. Made some light conversation. She was calm -- a little quieter than usual -- but nothing out of the ordinary.

We brushed, changed, and slipped into bed. I thought the day was done.

But then, just as I turned off the light -- it came again.

The same house. The same moans. Louder this time. Fiercer. The woman was screaming now. Not in pain -- no. In abandon. As if she had nothing to hide. As if the world outside those walls didn't exist.

I turned to my wife. Her head was angled slightly toward the sound. Her eyes were half-open. Not closed in sleep. Not in discomfort. But in attention.

She didn't say anything. Her breath was even, her body still. And for a moment, something inside me stirred -- something between jealousy and confusion. I didn't want to ask what she was thinking. I didn't want to know.

So instead, I reached out -- my hand sliding over her waist. Her body shifted toward me almost immediately.

There was no resistance. No hesitation. She kissed me back -- deeply, hungrily -- as if something had been lit inside her. We made love.

She responded eagerly. Moved like she meant every motion. Moaned softly in ways that were both familiar and slightly different. I told myself it was passion. I told myself it was just the excitement of a new place, a new chapter.

When it was over, we lay there in the dark. She turned over, facing away from the window. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the last echoes from that house still bouncing off the walls.

I told myself: Our sex life is great. She's happy. We're happy.

I told myself that again and again.

But a whisper in my mind -- slow, cold, persistent -- kept asking me:

WHAT IF I'M WRONG?

CHAPTER 4: THE CRACK IN THE WALL

The next morning was brighter than any so far, but my head still felt heavy -- like I was carrying the weight of everything that had happened in the past two days. Still, I forced a smile. I didn't want my thoughts to ruin what could be a fresh start.

I turned to my wife, who was standing near the kitchen counter, half-distracted by her thoughts. "Good morning," I said with a cheerful tone, trying to push away the unease.

She looked back at me, a little puzzled by my sudden energy, but smiled politely. "Good morning," she replied.

"I'll need my lunch early today," I reminded her gently. "I'm heading to the office."

"Oh! Right," she said, quickly gathering her focus. "I'll start preparing it now."

As she moved around in her simple housewife clothes -- a fitted blouse and flowing skirt -- she looked effortlessly beautiful. Her neat bun and soft presence made our messy reality seem a little more bearable.

I went to take a bath. The bathroom still smelled a bit musty, probably from the age of the building. As I washed my face, my eyes caught something unusual. It caught my eye as the sun hit the right spot. A hole, not too big, not too small, right at the center of the wall, facing probably the bathroom of the other house.

I leaned closer. It wasn't a regular crack. It was round -- as if someone had made it intentionally. But from this side, it was dark -- covered by something, maybe a board or cloth.

"Hmm," I murmured to myself. "Looks like they've already blocked it from the other side."

Still, a strange discomfort sat with me as I ran the towel over my shoulders. Something about that hole made me uneasy, but I shrugged it off. "I'll patch it up later," I thought. "No rush."

After drying off, I told my wife about the hole. "There's a small one in the bathroom wall. Looks like it's covered from the other side, but I'll fix it when I'm back."

She raised an eyebrow. "A hole?"

"Yeah, maybe from an old pipe or something. It's covered. Don't worry."

She nodded slowly. "Alright."

I got dressed and took one last look at her before leaving. "Take care today. Stay inside. If anything feels off, call me, okay?"

She smiled. "I will."

I kissed her forehead gently. But even as I walked out the door, a weight pressed on my chest -- a quiet whisper that something wasn't right. My gut had never been so uneasy in my life.

I spent the day trying to push the strange feelings aside, focusing on work and hoping everything would be normal when I got back. But when I finally stepped inside our home around 8 p. m., a chill ran down my spine.

The first thing I noticed was a slipper by the door -- a man's slipper. My heart suddenly hammered in my chest. I tried to tell myself it was nothing, maybe a neighbor dropping by, but the knot in my stomach tightened.

As I walked deeper inside, I saw her -- my wife, standing close to a man who looked like he was just about to leave. She seemed tense, her cheeks flushed softly, and she avoided his eyes.

I cleared my throat. "Hello," I said, my voice steady but cautious.

The man turned with a slow grin. "Hey there," he said casually. "I just came by to help your little wife. She was having some trouble with the tap."

My wife's cheeks colored deeper, and she kept looking down, almost like she was hiding something. A cold sting hit my chest.

The man gave me a chuckle as he brushed past, almost mocking me with his confidence. The whole scene felt like a silent challenge, and I felt like an outsider in my own home.

My wife finally spoke softly, "Go wash up. I'll get dinner ready."

I nodded silently, my mind racing. I wanted to ask her what really happened -- why she seemed so different -- but I swallowed the questions. I told myself to trust her.

Later, as I washed up and we ate dinner, she tried to explain. She said she didn't know anyone here yet, and when the tap broke, the man just happened to be nearby and helped her.

Her words were calm, but my eyes caught something else -- the dress she wore now was different from the one she had on when I left for work. The soft fabric hugged her curves perfectly, and I noticed how the skirt swayed gently as she moved. That dress... it wasn't the one I saw earlier.

I froze. Was she hiding something? Or had the day taken a turn I didn't know about?

But as she smiled at me, warm and familiar, I wanted to believe her. I kissed her good night, holding her close for a moment, though my mind still spun with questions.

That dress lingered in my thoughts -- a secret hanging between us, unseen but heavy.

CHAPTER 5: ONE WEEK OF RELIEF

The morning sunlight pierced softly through the curtains, warm and soothing. I woke up first, turning to face her. She looked so peaceful, curled up against the pillow. I leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek--an unspoken message: I trust you.

She stirred, opening her eyes slowly, and smiled. It was the same carefree smile I first fell for. I decided to take the day off. After everything--her confusion, my suspicion, the silence--I just wanted things to feel normal again.

We made breakfast together. The clatter of utensils and our small giggles made the house feel alive. We talked about silly things. Laughed like nothing had happened. And for a few hours, I believed it.

Then, the bell rang.

I opened the door and felt a drop of cold sweat trickle down my back. There he stood. The old man from next door, that disgusting grin plastered across his face. His eyes locked on my wife with a hunger that made my blood boil. I swallowed my anger, forcing a calm voice.

"Hello. What brings you here?"

"Oh, my lovely neighbors," he said, giving my wife a slow, leering look. "I've got some things on a high shelf that I can't reach. I'm not as young as I used to be. Maybe you could help me... or perhaps your wife could lend a hand instead," he added with a small, knowing smile, his eyes briefly drifting toward her.

His tone carried an unpleasant edge that instantly made me uncomfortable. I quickly offered to help him myself, hoping to keep things simple, but he replied with a smirk, 'Ah, but you'll need someone to hold the ladder--and that can't be me. So your wife will have to come along too.'

I didn't want her near him. Not again. But before I could speak, she stepped beside me and said with a soft smile, "It's alright. I'll help."

Her tone was gentle, firm. I nodded reluctantly.

As we walked behind the old man, I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes lingered on her. Every move of her hips, every flick of her hair--he soaked it in with a look that made my stomach churn. My fists clenched. But I stayed silent.

His house smelled faintly of dust and old memories. I climbed the ladder while my wife held it steady. The old man stood far too close to her. I heard him murmur, "Don't hold there, dear. Come here--hold this part tight. Don't want your husband falling and cracking his head, do we?"

She shifted to his side. I glanced down. His hand reached out, holding hers, guiding them. Too long. Too close. My heart pounded louder than the creaking of the ladder. I tried to focus on the boxes above.

One slipped.

She gasped, arms outstretched to catch it. In the sudden movement, she knocked into him, and he fell back with a groan.

The silence that followed was louder than the thud.

We rushed to help him up. His groans turned to exaggerated moans as he clutched his lower back. She apologized again and again, her hands trembling slightly.

We drove him to the nearest clinic. Nothing major, just a minor sprain, the doctor said. But he milked it with every breath, grimacing like he'd been run over.

The doctor said he needs to be hospitalized for a week--complete bed rest is necessary. I wanted to smile at the thought but kept a polite expression. My wife, on the other hand, seemed really down. I know her soul... she's a sensitive and caring person. The guilt of hurting an old man, even accidentally, must have weighed heavily on her.

Back at home, she remained quiet. I did my best to cheer her up, listening to her as she shared how she felt. I reassured her, lightened the mood with some silly jokes, and slowly, her smile returned. With a few giggles and laughter shared between us, we finally fell asleep, close and calm.

CHAPTER 6: THE GRIN IN THE SHADOWS

Surprisingly, my mind was calm this morning. The weight I carried the past few days had somehow dissolved into sleep. I don't remember the last time my chest felt this light. Maybe I just needed a break from overthinking.

She was already awake when I opened my eyes--humming in the kitchen, her soft voice curling through the walls like a melody I hadn't heard in ages. I slipped my arms around her from behind and buried my face in her shoulder. She giggled, warm and real. We exchanged kisses, slow and lingering--like we were finding our way back into each other.

It felt... normal. Like life had rewound back to before we stepped foot in this cursed locality. For the first time, I wasn't tracing invisible connections, questioning her eyes, or re-reading the curve of her smile. I let go. She was mine--and I, hers.

I went to work with a clear head and returned to her cheerful face at the door. Her arms wrapped around me like home. Somewhere, I knew she had sensed the unrest that once clouded me. The growing suspicions I carried... suspicions that were never her fault.

And God, that realization stung.

She had been nothing but supportive, caught in strange situations by pure misfortune. All the odd events somehow circled around her--but she was a victim, not the orchestrator. Doubting her loyalty... that was shameful. I hated the part of me that had looked at her differently even for a second.

So I buried it. Deep. Decided that no matter what madness this place threw at us--I was going to protect her and our sanity. The past was done. I was moving forward.

And for three days, we did exactly that.

Laughter filled our evenings. Her kisses returned with a kind of hunger that said she, too, had missed this version of us. Even in the silence, her hands always found mine. I watched her sleep beside me each night, her fingers occasionally curling into my chest. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

It was the fourth day since the old man's injury. I was in high spirits, humming a tune while adjusting my shirt in the mirror. She walked into the room wearing a breezy sundress that clung to her in all the ways that made it hard not to look too long. "Shopping?" she asked, eyes glinting.

"Absolutely," I smiled, grabbing the keys.

We stepped outside, laughter still fresh in the air. As we reached the end of the driveway, a woman caught our attention. She looked to be around my wife's age--or slightly older. Her body language was oddly cautious, maybe even... embarrassed. She kept her head low and briskly walked up to the house next door.

The same house. The young man's house--the one who fixed the tap... the house we heard sex noises from.

She knocked urgently. Quick, controlled knocks. Like she didn't want to draw attention. My wife and I naturally slowed down as we passed.

The door opened almost immediately. And there he was. The young man--shirtless, confident, eyes unreadable. He didn't waste a second. He grabbed the woman's wrist, almost possessively, and yanked her inside with a grin. It wasn't gentle. It was eager. Territorial.

I quickly averted my eyes. But I had seen it.

The way his hand wrapped around her wrist, possessive and urgent. And worse--the other hand slipping boldly to her ass, groping them like he had the right. That same grin on his face, predatory... shameless. Was that grin directed at me?

Or... MY WIFE??

I turned immediately to my wife. She was flushed. Just faintly. But it was there--like a faint hue of red blooming across her cheeks. She met my gaze and offered a small smile, the kind that tried to play things off. But the unease that had slowly faded over the past few days? It was crawling back into my chest like smoke under a door.

Still, I didn't say a word.

We continued walking. We shopped, exchanged jokes, picked out silly things we didn't need. Her laughter was warm again. Familiar. She touched my arm as we passed stalls and wrapped hers around mine when we crossed the street. She looked like mine. And I wanted--so badly--for everything to just be that simple.

Later that evening, we dressed up and went to a fancier place for dinner. The dim lights kissed her skin softly, the way her collarbone peeked through the neckline of her dress made me shift in my seat. She caught me staring and bit her lip, teasing.

There was warmth between us again. Sensual. Electric. But just as our fingers met over the table--

There she was.

The woman from earlier. The one who had been rushed inside like a secret. Only this time... she wasn't with the young man.

She walked into the restaurant with a man who looked like he was in his thirties. Smartly dressed, gentle in demeanor, and clearly comfortable with her. He placed a hand on her back--the kind of familiar, possessive gesture that only husbands or lovers make.

I felt it instantly. That cold, clenching feeling. Like a punch to the gut.

Could that really be her husband?

Did he have any idea?

My wife saw it too. I felt her body stiffen slightly beside me. Her eyes widened just a little. She looked at me, and we both shared the same silent thought.

If that's her husband... Then everything we saw earlier was a betrayal. A shameless one.

A burning sensation pooled in my chest. Not just for the man--but for the idea of it all. Of someone loving so purely... while their partner slipped away into another's arms.

I glanced at my wife. Elegant. Composed. Smiling, though it was more restrained now.

The image of that woman haunted me--but not as much as the thought of my own wife doing something like that. The very idea... her in someone else's embrace, her breath whispering another man's name... it felt like a noose tightening around my throat. Like someone had sealed both my nose and my mouth, leaving me gasping for trust.

But I looked at her again--her soft fingers brushing mine across the table--and I reminded myself.

She is not that woman. She is loyal. Graceful.

A part of me wanted to fall on my knees right there and thanthank the universe for giving me her. For protecting our love from decay.

That night, I held her a little tighter as we lay in bed. My arm draped over her waist, my face buried in the warmth of her neck. She stirred slightly and backed into me, her hips pressing just enough to make my breath catch.

I closed my eyes and whispered a silent promise to whatever gods were listening.

Please, don't let this peace be fake.

CHAPTER 7: THE CALM BEFORE THE

STORM

The next morning, I woke up with an extreme headache. It wasn't just a mild throbbing--it was the kind that creeps into your temples and settles in like it belongs there. The kind that makes you feel like the world is pressing down on your skull with a silent, sinister weight. The kind that made me realize something I didn't want to admit-- those three days of peace were nothing more than a fleeting illusion. Like a man who returns from a soul-refreshing vacation only to find himself once again shackled to his desk, bright lights humming above him like a mocking laugh.

She was right beside me when I opened my eyes, sitting quietly and watching me. Her brows furrowed with concern, a soft hand resting on my forehead.

"You didn't sleep well?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"No," I replied. "Head's killing me. Feels like somebody knocked me out with a hammer last night."

She didn't say much, but I could see the worry in her eyes. She was always like that--gentle, intuitive, and genuinely caring. Watching her move around the room, trying to make me feel better, part of me ached with guilt for all the unspoken doubts I had let grow in my mind. She didn't deserve them.

My head throbbed painfully, and while my wife looked genuinely worried for me, my own mind was tangled in a different kind of concern--something deeper, something unsettling. It wasn't the old man this time, but the young guy next door. The way he grinned yesterday while pulling that woman inside--was it aimed at me? Or at my wife? I couldn't tell, but the image kept replaying in my head like a warning. There was an unease crawling under my skin, a tension I couldn't quite put into words. It felt almost like a glimpse into a twisted version of my own future. I don't know why, but I have this strange feeling--I need to be wary of him.

There were no painkillers at home, so I decided to walk to the nearby medical shop. I expected the worst--this neighborhood had taught me to. Arrogance, shamelessness, or just unsettling silence seemed to be the common male language here. But when I stepped into the medical shop, I was caught off guard.

The man behind the counter looked to be around my age. Clean-shaven, well-groomed, his shirt tucked neatly, sleeves rolled just right. He looked up with a polite smile.

"Good morning, Sir. What can I get for you?"

His tone was warm--no trace of arrogance or fake politeness. I asked for something for my headache, and he immediately handed me a strip of tablets, even offering a glass of water with a kind nod.

"You've moved into the locality recently?" he asked, casually.

"Yes, almost two weeks ago."

"How are you finding it here?" he continued, genuinely interested.

"It's... different," I said, choosing my words carefully.

He laughed lightly. "Yes, people around here are... weird."

There was something calming about him. Like he didn't belong in this neighborhood either, but had somehow adapted to it. We ended up chatting for a few minutes--small talk about the power cuts, the inconsistent water supply, and how the rains ruined the roads every monsoon. I told him my name.

"Ray," he said, shaking my hand. "Nice to meet someone normal around here."

Before leaving, I impulsively invited him over.

"You should stop by sometime. My wife makes great coffee."

He hesitated, probably not used to people being friendly either. But after a pause, he smiled and said, "Alright. Not today. But maybe tomorrow. I work till late."

"Perfect," I said. "Come by when you're free. It'll be good to talk to someone."

I walked back home with the medicine in hand, and something else--relief. It felt good to meet someone decent. For the first time, I didn't feel like I was alone in this strange place. Maybe I'd been too cynical, too guarded. Not everyone here was bad.

When I returned home, I found her at the door, drying her hands on a kitchen towel, face glowing from the warm light spilling in from the balcony. Her smile--the kind that reaches the eyes--made me feel foolish for all the doubts I had harbored days ago. How could I ever question her?

She took the medicine from my hand and led me to the couch. As I sat down and leaned back, I told her about Ray, and how normal he seemed. She listened, curious but pleased. "That's nice," she said, placing a glass of water on the table beside me. "You could use a friend around here."

I smiled and nodded, letting the tablet melt down my throat.

But even as I closed my eyes for a moment of peace, a quiet voice inside me whispered a warning I chose to ignore.

Peace, in this place....

.... never lasts long.

CHAPTER 8: WHEN THE LIGHTS WENT

OUT

After meeting Ray, the guy from the medical shop, something shifted inside me. For the first time since we moved here, I felt a flicker of hope. A faint, timid spark in an otherwise smoggy sky. Maybe this was the beginning of something better. The headache that had clawed at my skull was gone, and I wasn't sure whether it was the medicine or just the psychological relief of knowing there was someone decent around me.

The day passed like any other--I went to work, returned by evening, and everything felt oddly... calm. That night, as I lay in bed beside her, I caught myself smiling. A small one. Maybe I was being too dramatic about this locality. Maybe things would fall into place now.

The next morning was a Sunday. The light filtered through the window in golden streaks, and for once, we didn't rush into chores or responsibilities. We spent the morning lazily cooking together in the kitchen. She wore one of my shirts--something she did on rare mornings like these--and we moved around the kitchen like a well-practiced team. From teasing each other over too much salt in the food to playfully flicking water on each other from the sink, it felt... warm. Real. That rare kind of happiness where you forget the world exists beyond your four walls.

By evening, we had eaten, cleaned, laughed, and lazed around enough for the day. Around 7 PM, I stepped out onto the balcony for some air. The sky was turning a deep violet, and the street was dimly lit--enough to cast long, ambiguous shadows.

That's when I saw him--Ray--walking toward our house.

I smiled instinctively. But before I could call out, he slowed down and stopped outside the young guy's house next door. My smile faded, replaced by a quiet curiosity.

The two exchanged a conversation. I couldn't hear them, but their body language said enough. It wasn't casual. It was friendly--too friendly. Ray laughed loudly and clapped the young guy on the back, the kind of hard, familiar smack friends give each other when exchanging inside jokes or reliving mischief. Ray had a grin I hadn't seen before--wide, carefree, almost... arrogant.

For a moment, it threw me off. Ray, the neatly dressed, soft-spoken gentleman from the shop, was laughing like an old pal with someone I had mentally labeled as a sleazy, vulgar delinquent.

Maybe he was just one of those people who got along with everyone. Maybe I was reading too much into it. He pointed toward our house and said something to the guy.

Perhaps, "I'm visiting them now."

But I couldn't shake the unease crawling under my skin.

I walked inside and told my wife, "He's here, get the coffee ready."

She nodded, tying her hair back, humming softly as she walked toward the kitchen. I waited by the door.

A minute later, the doorbell rang.

I opened it with a smile, but what greeted me wasn't what I expected.

He was smiling--but it wasn't the warm, modest smile from yesterday. This one was... different. A little too wide. A little too forced. There was something unsettling in the way his eyes didn't quite match the smile. They scanned me too quickly, as if checking a box.

Still, I forced myself to remain polite. "Come in," I said.

"Brought some fruits for you," he said, handing over a plastic bag. "Thought I shouldn't come empty-handed."

"Thanks, that's very kind."

He stepped in, his footsteps lighter than I remembered. My wife walked out with a smile and a tray in her hands. "Good evening," she said, polite and graceful as ever.

Ray smiled at her, this time more appropriately. "Nice to finally meet you. He's told me how amazing your cooking is."

She laughed modestly. "He's exaggerating."

We sat down in the living room--coffee, light snacks, some soft instrumental music playing on low volume. At first, the conversation was casual. Funny anecdotes from my work, his strange encounters with customers at the medical store, even her adding in stories from our college days. We laughed. I was beginning to relax.

Maybe I really was overthinking earlier.

But just as I started to believe the evening would go by without any oddity, there was a loud, sudden bang on the front door.

Not a knock. A bang.

All three of us froze.

The sound echoed through the flat, sharp and unexpected--like someone had kicked the door with force.

The bang was loud--too loud. It jolted through our walls like a shockwave, making all three of us flinch hard, our bodies instinctively tensing.

I was about to take a cautious step toward the door when Ray grabbed my arm. His voice was low, sharp, serious.

"Wait," he whispered. "I think I know what this could be."

Cold sweat immediately began trickling down my back. His tone wasn't casual anymore--it had shifted, alarmingly calm yet commanding, the way someone sounds when they've been through this before.

"It's probably a burglary," he said. "Happens a lot around here. Trust me, we don't have much time. Just do exactly what I say."

My wife and I exchanged a silent, fearful glance and nodded.

"Turn off every light. Now."

I rushed to the other rooms, switching off bulbs and tube lights in a frantic blur--kitchen, bedroom, hallway--while my wife quickly flicked the switches in the living area. We moved as if a single second of delay could cost us dearly.

As I returned to the main room, the entire house now cloaked in pitch-black silence, I heard it.

The click of the door's lock being tampered with. A subtle creak--the unmistakable sound of the door slowly opening.

My chest tightened. The darkness made everything feel slower, louder, more vulnerable.

Shapes were just vague silhouettes now. I could make out Ray's outline--tense, alert.

"Under the table," he hissed urgently.

I dropped down, sliding under it without thinking. My breaths shallow, hands trembling.

Then came the footsteps.

Soft at first, like they were trying to stay quiet--but in the dead silence of the flat, they felt deafening. They grew louder, nearer. Someone--or someones--were definitely inside.

I tried to spot my wife. I wasn't sure where she had hidden. The fear that she might be in plain sight made my heart pound violently.

Then I heard a faint sound. A rustle. A whisper-like murmur. My eyes adjusted slowly, and I saw what I thought was her shape near the futon closet. It looked like she had managed to squeeze herself inside. The closet could barely fit one person, but she had made it.

But something about her seemed... off. The way she stood, the way her silhouette moved--it felt stiffer than usual. Almost like she was trying not to shake. Maybe it was just fear, or maybe my nerves were playing tricks on me.

That's when I realized something strange.

The futon closet could only fit one person. So where had Ray hidden?

The footsteps were still moving around, and at one point, they entered the adjacent room above. The creaking of wooden floorboards gave us the briefest sense of distance.

Then--thud!

A dull, sharp sound came from the futon closet.

I whispered urgently in the dark, "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, honey," she replied, her voice hushed, shaky. "Just... hit my hand. I'm okay."

But her voice was strange too. Hesitant. Like she was trying hard to sound normal but failing. There was a slight pause before each word, as if she was unsure of what to say. I told myself it was trauma--fear can mess with your tone, your words, everything. She had always been sensitive to stress. Maybe this was just how she processed panic.

And then came the relief. Police sirens.

Wailing, getting closer.

The footsteps inside the house scrambled. I could hear them rushing toward the back door, retreating into the night.

We stayed still for a moment longer, just to be sure.

Then, suddenly, the living room light flicked on. The harsh white glow stung my eyes after the pitch dark.

It was Ray.

And my wife.

Both standing in the middle of the room, looking at me as if waiting for me to come out from under the table.

I crawled out slowly, my limbs still stiff with tension. I turned toward her, concerned.

She was soaked--her clothes clinging to her skin like she had walked through a sudden downpour. Her hair was wet too, strands sticking to her cheeks.

"What happened to you?" I asked, my eyes scanning her.

She gave a weak smile. "The closet was too hot."

Her voice was unusually flat.

I didn't question her much further. I didn't have the mental bandwidth to. The entire evening had drained every last drop of energy I had.

Ray clapped a hand on my back with a grin that felt... too casual.

"You okay, man?"

"Yeah," I replied slowly. "Where did you hide?"

He pointed toward the cupboard in the corner of the room. "That one. Just big enough if you squeeze in. Sorry for the chaos--this place, man... it never runs out of surprises."

I nodded, trying to believe him. I thanked him for his help and apologized for the inconvenience.

My wife was quiet the entire time. I held her hand. It was ice cold. Her eyes darted around the room, still unsettled. She nodded at Ray's goodbye but said nothing.

Maybe she was just overwhelmed. Can't blame her. She had a tender soul--always did.

As I closed the door behind him, a hollow silence wrapped the room again. I stood still, replaying the night in my head.

Something didn't feel right. But I didn't have the courage to dig into that thought.

All I knew was--I was regretting every moment of my decision to move here. This place... this damned place... it had drained all color from our lives.

And for the first time in weeks, I asked myself in complete honesty--

WHY THE HELL DID I EVER COME HERE?