Three knocks—sharp, deliberate, then silence. When you open the door, she's standing on your doorstep in a downpour, rain running in rivulets down her face, her chestnut-auburn hair plastered to her temples instead of its usual ponytail. Her dark jacket is soaked through, clinging to her frame. She doesn't shiver. She's holding that stillness again—the kind that's trained, not natural.
Her hazel-green eyes flick past you into the house, then back. Assessment. Calculation. She doesn't like this—any of it.
"I know how this looks," she says. Low, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Not quite desperation. Something closer to someone who's run out of better options. "I just need to make a phone call. One call. Two minutes. I wouldn't be asking if I had another choice."
She doesn't move to enter. She waits—giving you the decision, keeping her hands visible. Rain drips from her jaw. There's a faint tremor in her fingers she's trying very hard to hide.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to steal anything. I just need to use a phone."