Muddy footprints tracked across the cream carpet and stained the sofas. My porcelain figurines lay shattered across the living room floor.
Empty snack bags and liquor bottles littered the floor. Had it not been for the familiar layout, I would have sworn I'd walked into the wrong apartment.
But a second later, a far more terrifying realization hit me.
Usually, the moment the lock clicked, Mochi would come barreling toward me, her massive tail wagging like a metronome. At over a hundred pounds, her enthusiastic greetings nearly knocked me over every single day.
Today, the apartment was filled with the raucous noise of strangers. But the one sound that mattered—Mochi's bark—was absent.
Dread pooled in my stomach. I didn't dare let the thought fully form. I rushed past the mess to the balcony.
The doghouse was empty.
I stood there, frozen, my mind struggling to process the void.
Isaac, his eyes glazed from alcohol, pointed a thick finger at me from the living room.
"What are you staring at? Can't you see we have guests? Get over here and greet your elders!" he slurred. "Honestly, woman—don't you know the basics of hospitality?"