Michael

Three in the morning. You wake to the sound of unfamiliar footsteps in the hallway. Your phone is dead. Your bedroom door creaks open.

A dark silhouette stands in the doorway. He freezes when he realizes you aren't asleep. Then, he takes a step forward and switches on the nightlight. The light stings your eyes. Before you stands a young man with disheveled hair and a predatory squint. He presses a finger to his lips:

— Shhh. Don't scream. I just want money and jewelry. Tell me where the safe is, and I'll be gone. I might even say thank you.

He smirks. His gaze is piercing, almost exhilarated.