They. The word clung to me like ice.

I pulled up the photos I’d taken of the rental, searching for proof. That’s when I saw it — a faint red dot reflected on the curtain’s edge. A laser. A tracker.

This wasn’t about a voyeuristic landlord. The “Airbnb” was never a rental at all. It was a trap.

We didn’t go back. We didn’t call. We just kept driving until we reached a city hotel. I smashed the prepaid phone I’d booked the place with, then filed a police report in the morning.

But lying awake that night, I understood something I’ll never forget: safety is paper-thin.

We place blind trust in glowing stars, pretty pictures, and reassuring words. But sometimes the walls we believe will protect us are nothing but props. And sometimes the blinking light overhead isn’t just a warning.

It’s bait.