Hannah and Owen had rented their apartment for three quiet years, filling it with books, mismatched furniture, and weekend souvenirs. One Saturday morning, while Owen was at work, their landlord Rick stopped by to check for water damage. He disappeared into the bathroom for ten silent minutes, emerging stiff and evasive. Later, Hannah noticed the bathroom mirror looked slightly off. Behind it, she and Owen discovered a hidden microphone embedded in the wall—pointed straight through to the neighboring unit. It hadn’t been installed recently; it had been there, waiting, hidden in plain sight.

Owen, shaken, admitted he was being considered for a high-stakes promotion. A rival had recently joked about “digging up dirt.” Fearing a targeted breach, they went to the police, only to learn Rick had vanished—no digital trace, no real identity. Their home had been compromised, their privacy stolen. Days later, Owen learned that his coworker Derek had orchestrated it all, bribing Rick to plant surveillance. Derek confessed under pressure from a third colleague who refused to stay silent.

With the threat gone, Hannah and Owen moved into a modest house on the edge of town. Owen mounted the mirror himself. They checked every wall, every bracket. Trust would take time.

Now, “home” means safety they fought to reclaim—brick by brick, silence by silence.