Miles woke to a low hum — the kind of sound that makes you think a machine has been left running somewhere. He leaned out of bed, blinked at the clock: 7:38. He was going to be late again.
Down on the street, the hum was nothing — just silence, heavy and waiting. Four tyres slumped flat as puddles, their rubber lips torn ragged.
For a moment, Miles just stared, unable to make sense of it — as if his brain refused the data. He stood in the morning air, then....phone in hand, taking a photo for the insurance. A bead of sweat ran down his back.
He crouched, touched the edge of one of the slashes — clean, deliberate. Not kids. Not random. Someone who meant it.
A man in a hi-vis jacket ambled past with a takeaway coffee.
“Hell of a job, that,” he said. “All four?”
“All four.”
“Must’ve been personal.”
Miles gave a small, crooked smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I know who.”
The man nodded in that way people do when they don’t really want to know.
Miles straightened, stared down the empty street. He didn’t say the name, but it sat there anyway, buzzing in his head. He almost admired the symmetry of it. Four circles, four tyres. A message written in rubber.
Matt’s street was all fresh brick and neat hedges, the kind of place where nothing was meant to happen.
He’d been out all day lecturing at the college — “Intro to Media Studies,” twenty-four glazed faces — and got home just after six.
He saw the door before he saw anything else.
It was grey — a single, streaky coat. Which was strange, because when Matt left for work that morning, the door had been white.
He put his key in the lock, half expecting it to smear. The paint was tacky; his fingers came away stained.
Next door’s builder, in overalls, was hauling a toolbox from his van.
“Evenin’,” Matt said, forcing cheer.
“Alright, mate.” The builder squinted. “Was that you having that door done, then?”
“Sorry?”
“Earlier on, fella turned up, paint tin, brush. Thought you’d hired him. Didn’t say much. Just got on with it. 15 minutes later, off he went. Looks, uh—” he gestured, “—looks a bit rushed, if I’m honest.”
Matt blinked. “What’d he look like?”
The man scratched his head. “Hard to say. Hoodie up. Bit scruffy. Kept his face down. Could’ve been anyone, really.”
“Anyone?”
“Well…” the builder hesitated, eyes darting sideways. “Funny, he did look familiar. Maybe off the news or something — hard to say."
Matt’s throat tightened. “What do you mean, off the news?”
“Dunno. Wouldn’t swear to it. Just had one of those faces.”
The builder climbed into his van.
“Probably some nutter,” he called through the window. “World’s full of them.”
Matt stood in his drive long after the van pulled away. The air smelt faintly of solvent and something else — fear, maybe, or damp soil.
He looked at the streaky grey paint, the uneven brushstrokes, the single attempt at transformation.
The white still showing through.