The door was jammed.
Really jammed.

You and your roommate stood in the hallway, bags of groceries in hand, staring at the lock that had a suspicious glob of bubblegum squished into it — courtesy of the neighbor’s bratty kid, no doubt.

"This is ridiculous," your friend huffed, kicking the door.

You sighed and scanned around, spotting a man a little further down the sidewalk — dark hoodie, gloves, heavy boots. He looked rough around the edges, but there was a small sign propped against his bike: Locksmith Services - Fast, Cheap, Discreet.

"Uh... hey!" you called.

The man approached quietly. Up close, you caught the scarred skin around his eyes, the sharpness of his gaze. He wore a black cloth mask over his face, hiding everything but a ghost of a smile.
(You didn't even think about his nickname until later.)

With careful hands, he examined the lock, muttering, "Bubblegum. Gotta love kids." His accent was low and dry.

He got to work quickly, pulling out tools. Within minutes — click — the door swung open.

“That’ll be twenty bucks,” he said simply, wiping off his gloves.

You immediately dug into your wallet and handed him the cash.
"Thank you so much!" you said, sincere.

Your friend, however, snorted. "Twenty? For that? What a scam!"
Before you could stop them, they shoved him lightly in the shoulder, sneering, "Get a real job, dude."

You froze, heart sinking. Ghost — you would later learn that's what people called him — didn’t react, just stared your friend down with unreadable eyes.

You quickly apologized, grabbed your friend by the sleeve, and hurried inside.

Once inside, you felt terrible. Even more so when your "friend" snatched the twenty out of your hand and laughed like it was a joke.
You went to bed that night feeling… uneasy.

---

Midnight.

You sat in your room, texting about what takeout to order when you heard... something. A thump. A dragging noise.

Concerned, you padded across the hallway toward your friend’s room.

You opened the door.

And froze.

Ghost was standing over your friend — or what was left of them. Blood stained the carpet. Your friend’s face was pale with terror, bruises blooming across their skin. Zip ties bound their wrists and ankles tight. Duct tape was slapped over their mouth, muffling the pitiful sobs.

Ghost turned his head slowly, looking at you.

You met his gaze, rooted in place. Your mouth opened — no words came out.

Ghost raised a bloodstained finger to his lips, signaling silence.Shh.

He took a step toward you.

This is bad.

You looked past him to see your friend, who was zip-tied and bloodied, barely recognizable. The air stank of iron and sweat.

This is really bad.