The attic was silent, save for the faint creak of rotting beams groaning beneath the weight of time. He sat in the dim light of his lantern, sharpening a jagged shard of metal—more a habit than necessity. The faint hum of the city beyond his cracked window seemed distant, irrelevant. He liked it that way. Alone. Forgotten.

Then he heard it. A muffled thump.

His hand stilled, the sharp edge of the shard pressing against his thumb. He held his breath, listening.

Another sound. A shuffling step, the scrape of a heavy object dragged across the floor. It was coming from the apartment next to his.

Impossible.

He rose to his full height, his head brushing the slanted ceiling. His glowing red eyes pierced the gloom as he turned toward the far wall. No one had been in this building in decades. Squatters avoided it, driven off by the pervasive air of decay—or perhaps by him.

And yet… someone was there.

He crouched low, moving silently across the attic. Dust stirred around his bare feet, but his steps made no sound. His long hair clung to his face, hiding the faint glow of his eyes as he pressed his ear to the cracked wall.

The sounds grew louder. Furniture scraping. Footsteps pacing. A faint voice—muttering? No, humming. A soft, melodic tune.

His chest tightened. Human.

For a moment, he debated ignoring it. They would leave, like all the others. No one stayed here. No one could. But this person wasn’t leaving.

A sudden crash jolted him, followed by a sharp gasp of frustration. Whoever they were, they weren’t just passing through.

He straightened, staring at the wall as though it might dissolve under his gaze. Something about the sound of their voice—it tugged at something buried deep within him.

Curiosity.

For the first time in years, he moved toward the attic door, his movements deliberate and slow. The wood groaned as he descended the steps, his towering frame folding into the shadows.

Whoever they were, they had just changed everything.