My wife was the first to notice it.
We were already in bed, the lights off, the quiet hum of the unfamiliar house settling around us. She shifted beside me, then froze.
“Do you see that?” she whispered.
I followed her gaze to the ceiling. A tiny red light blinked once… twice… then went dark.
“At the smoke detector,” she said.
I told myself it was nothing. Low battery indicator. Normal. But something about the way she’d gone still—about the way the silence suddenly felt heavier—made me get up.
I dragged a chair beneath the detector and climbed onto it. My fingers twisted the plastic cover loose.
The moment it came off, my breath caught.
Inside wasn’t just wiring. There was a small black circle, no bigger than a pea. A glassy surface. Perfectly centered.
A lens.
For a second, I couldn’t move. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like someone had walked in on us without opening a door.
I climbed down slowly. My wife took one look at my face and knew.
“Camera?” she asked.
I nodded.
We didn’t argue. We didn’t panic. We didn’t even speak after that. Survival instincts kicked in, sharp and efficient. Clothes went into bags without folding. Shoes went on backward. I unplugged nothing, turned off no lights.
We were out the door in under five minutes.
The car doors slammed. The engine roared to life. Only when we were a mile down the road did either of us breathe.
Neither of us suggested going back.
