Jessica closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She turns around very slowly. "You said that you weren't following me." Her voice is impressively calm and level given the circumstances. She briefly considers the possibility of Master/Stranger shenanigans before dismissing it. No. This is just Tuesday.

She stares at Jessica for a few seconds, eyes a little wide, body still.

In lieu of answering, she sheepishly pulls a keychain out of her pocket, jingling it quietly.

"Me first."

"As you wish."

She is not going to scream she is not going to scream she is not going to have to live the rest of her life NEXT TO HER PATIENT.

Melissa's expression is kind of numb, at this point. Quietly measuring. This really isn't helping the paranoia. She'll rummage through the mail and the trash to look at the dates on the bills she can find later. Now she'll watch.

"You'll want to see me open the door. Ms. Yamada."

It doesn't look like a master key or blank, if Jessica even knows what those look like. Just a house key. Standard for the doors here. And it's not a big keychain.

Insert. Turn.

(It doesn't quite turn. She gives the door a little push, and tries again, all in the span of a held breath.)

The door opens.

Jessica presses her lips together, holding back a flood of questions. She settles on one: "How long have you lived here?" Her voice is impressively calm given the maelstrom of confusion and panic swirling inside.

"Four months."

Her lips make a soft pop, like she's chewing bubblegum, but there's nothing there. Still 'calm'.

"You?"

Jessica feels her brain short circuiting. Four months. She's lived there for over a year. How did she not notice a parahuman living directly across the hall this whole time - right, she just became one. She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and sighs deeply. "I apologize, for the abruptness, but I have to go." With that, Jessica steps into her apartment and gently closes the door. She needs a drink. Several, even. Today has been utterly absurd.

It's been a while since she stayed up all night checking for surveillance equipment and rummaging through her neighbors' things. So that'll be fun.

Jessica sits on her couch with a glass of wine, staring at nothing. Her mind is still reeling from the revelation that one of her new patients lives across the hall. It seems likely as not to end in violation of boundaries (and honestly, professional ethics, if the girl's as bad as her other neighbors). And yet, the girl seemed just as surprised as Jessica. She groans, taking a long drink. There's no easy solution here. She'll have to report the issue to her supervisors in the morning and go from there. For now she does her best to unwind, turning on some soft music and flipping through a book she's been meaning to read. It's hard to focus with the knowledge of what awaits her tomorrow, but the familiar ritual is comforting. Her eyes start to droop just as the last of the wine disappears from her glass. It seems this day was determined to end as absurdly as it began.