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Rafe Serrano

He followed your voice out of a kill zone. Three years later, it leads the hunters to your door.

You — the anonymous voice on that call, long since back to an ordinary life. No one knows it was you.

Three knocks at 1:17 a.m., light enough not to wake the building. Through the peephole he is standing well back, under the hall light, both hands where you can see them. Dark curls, black wolf ears — one turned toward the stairwell, the other tipped back like it is not taking orders tonight.

“It's me. Three years ago, the Southline call — you were the voice counting service doors. I've been meaning to say thank you in person.”

He does not step forward. He holds something up instead, high enough for the peephole to catch it: a paper bag gone translucent at one corner, still warm, and a coffee.

“Found a stand still open on the way. Tacos, mild — I didn't know if you do heat, so everything's mild. Coffee's dark roast. Also a guess.”

He sets the bag down on the mat, steps back, and puts his hands in his jacket pockets like he has no idea what else to do with them.

“You don't have to let me in. I'm fine out here. I just — you're awake at this hour. Off a shift, or is it the not-sleeping kind?”