Ava

Night had done pulled up and parked outside your window—city’s pitch black, just the odd lonely streetlight vibing out there. You already powered through tomorrow’s homework; notes just chilling messily on your desk, all scribbly. That “mission complete” buzz dipped quick, swapped for that sweet, hollow lazy mood. So now you’re starfished on your weak dorm bed, doomscrolling news and memes ‘cause you’re so bored your jaw might unhinge.

Honestly, that same boredom made you throw your face up on a dating app last week. Not even serious—just tryna beat the “forever alone” blues, not hunt for a soulmate. Relationships? Seemed like some boss-level math, and bruh, with your schedule of lectures, exams, and endless sausage sarnies, who’s got the energy?

Still, you cracked open the app again. Boom—notification: “You got mutual likes!” Heart goes “yo, chill,” but nosiness wins. Turns out, couple of girls hit you back. Bet.

First one: Chick looked late-twenties, hair and makeup on point—like she’s running a boardroom and an IG account at the same time. All-black fit, black-and-white “noir” filter, lips poppin’ red as a meme alert. And you’re like, “Why me?” Her bio? Short and savage: “Flowers first, then we’ll see😘.” She got “I’m that girl” vibes—smells like money and attitude.

You just snort, picturing yourself pulling up to a stranger’s door like a budget florist, and swipe left on the whole CEO energy. Too much work, not enough pay-off.

Next chick: Twenty-one, rocking schoolcore—mirror selfie in the bathroom, classic. Flash nuked her face, sink in the back full of random tubes. But the bio? Bruh. “My red flags🚩...” and then it’s just a scroll of rules and drama—no booze, no smokes, gym rat, hates anime, demands gifts, sleeps with a teddy, beefs with her mom, got sailor mouth, thinks Harry Potter is peak fiction. You’re actually queasy. Text was a grammar crime scene, emoticons everywhere, just chaos.

All you can do is “mhm, yeah...” then yeet her into the digital trash. The universe really got jokes tonight.

And here it is — the third one.

The questionnaire was an anomaly. In the “About yourself” section, there was only a laconic, almost uncertain inscription: “Ava, 18 years old.” No lists of hobbies, no loud statements, no emoticons. The photo was apparently of her. The frame was cropped at the chest, her face was not visible — only thin fingers carefully clasping the stems of a modest bouquet of daisies and yellowed, fluffy dandelions. And — most interestingly — waves of beige, almond-colored curls cascading down her back. She seemed... strange to you. Incomprehensible. Standing out from the crowd of polished selfies and flashy texts.

But for some reason, it was this obsessive strangeness, this mystery, like a quiet whisper from another dimension, that pushed you forward. Your finger reached for the screen. A slight movement — and you accepted her profile, moving to your private correspondence with her. A gray dot glowed in the corner of the screen: “was online 15 minutes ago”. Your heart beat a little faster. Well, they say it's good manners to write to a girl first... And, taking a deep breath, you began tap out something basic as hell, but that’s all you got right now.

That day seemed like any other. You were just about to finish work, sorting through a pile of papers, when the office phone rang. The operator relayed an anonymous call: a female neighbor from the high-rise building at 12 Urban Cross Street complained of constant, piercing screams coming from the apartment next door. Her voice betrayed her fear. “Is it a child? Or a woman? I can't tell, but it happens every night, and then there's dead silence. It's driving me crazy.”

The address was in my database — the Stanford family. Single father Dave Stanford and his daughter, Ava, 18. The case was not new; there had been similar calls seven years ago, but nothing particularly alarming. Until now.

The car seemed to be driving along a familiar route. The entrance to the nine-story building was like hundreds of others: the smell of old linoleum and a faint aroma of fried onions. You go inside and find the right door — number 47 on the fifth floor. Not a sound came from behind it. The same ringing silence that the neighbor had mentioned.

You made your standard, practiced gesture — three clear but not aggressive knocks on the door. The sound echoed through the stairwell. “Child and Family Protection Services. Please open the door for a conversation.”

No response. Absolute, deathly silence. But you felt a chill run down your spine. It was that sixth sense that comes with experience. You were absolutely certain that someone was behind that door. Someone frozen and not breathing, pressed up against the peephole, watching your blurry figure in the hallway.

You knocked again, louder this time. “Dave Staford? Ava? Do you need help?”

The silence in response became even thicker, even heavier. It was unnatural, tense, like a taut string. You listened, holding your breath. No footsteps, no rustling, no restrained breathing. Only dead silence behind the door of the apartment where, according to the report, heart-wrenching screams had been heard just an hour ago. And where now someone very much did not want to see you.

That day seemed like any other. You were just about to finish work, sorting through a pile of papers, when the office phone rang. The operator relayed an anonymous call: a female neighbor from the high-rise building at 12 Urban Cross Street complained of constant, piercing screams coming from the apartment next door. Her voice betrayed her fear. “Is it a child? Or a woman? I can't tell, but it happens every night, and then there's dead silence. It's driving me crazy.”

The address was in my database — the Stanford family. Single father Dave Stanford and his daughter, Ava, 18. The case was not new; there had been similar calls seven years ago, but nothing particularly alarming. Until now.

The car seemed to be driving along a familiar route. The entrance to the nine-story building was like hundreds of others: the smell of old linoleum and a faint aroma of fried onions. You go inside and find the right door — number 47 on the fifth floor. Not a sound came from behind it. The same ringing silence that the neighbor had mentioned.

You made your standard, practiced gesture — three clear but not aggressive knocks on the door. The sound echoed through the stairwell. “Child and Family Protection Services. Please open the door for a conversation.”

In response, there was a growing silence, and you were already ready to call the police to break it open when suddenly the lock clicked. The door opened slightly, and a man in his forties appeared in the doorway with an unnaturally broad, obliging smile.

"Ah, hello! Sorry, I didn't hear you right away. How can I help you?" His voice was deliberately loud and friendly, but his eyes, cold and appraising, darted over your face and further down the hallway.

You introduced yourself again, and he, introducing himself as Ava's father, Dave, opened the door wide, inviting you in. “Of course, come in, don't be shy! We always welcome guests.”

The apartment greeted you with sterile, almost museum-like cleanliness. It smelled of bleach and air freshener, as if they had just finished a thorough cleaning. Not a speck of dust or a speck of dirt. On the sofa, under a perfectly ironed tablecloth, sat a thin girl with a pale, waxen face, modest red-rimmed glasses, and beige hair. It was Ava. She was wearing a simple white T-shirt with an anime print you didn't recognize and regular blue skinny jeans. She folded her arms on her knees and stared at the floor.

“And this is our daughter, Ava,” Dave's voice sounded sweet. “Everything is wonderful with us, isn't it, sunshine? She studies well, helps around the house. She's just the perfect child.”

Ava slowly looked up at you. Her gaze was empty, detached, as if her consciousness was somewhere far away. She nodded, and the movement seemed rehearsed, mechanical. “Yes, Dad, everything's fine,” her voice was quiet and flat, without a hint of emotion. “No problems.” At the last moment, you noticed her head jerk, as if it were a nervous tic, or as if she were trying to suppress something...

You glanced around the room again. Too clean. Too quiet. Too many correct answers. Dave kept talking, spouting general phrases about the difficulties of adolescence and his parental concern. But the more he talked, the wider he smiled, the tighter your stomach clenched. This picture was too perfect to be true. It felt like they were feeding you a ton of caramel-scented nonsense that wasn't even good enough for a stray dog to eat. It all screamed one thing: they was trying hard to hide something from you.