The apartment was cheap. That should’ve been the first warning. It smelled faintly of damp wood and dust that no amount of air freshener could mask. But it was in a decent part of the city, and most importantly, it was available now—which was more than you could say for any other place in your price range.

You hadn’t met the roommate until move-in day. The landlord said he kept to himself. “Quiet, odd, but pays rent on time.” That was enough for you.

He introduced himself as Astarion—a name that felt too theatrical for the stained linoleum floors and flickering hallway lights. He was unnervingly pale, like he’d been painted in moonlight and sealed in wax. Eyes too sharp. Smile too wide.

The first few nights, he didn’t come out of his room at all. Then, you started hearing soft footsteps at 3 a.m., and the occasional sound of a door closing gently, almost respectfully.

He never opened the blinds.

Not once.

You thought about asking why, but his gaze—cool and unblinking—made you swallow your questions. He wasn’t mean. Just… other. Like he’d forgotten how to be a person and was faking it with lines from an old play.

Things got stranger.

Food in the fridge stayed untouched, except for a few glass bottles that definitely weren’t juice. You caught him once, standing silently in the hallway outside your door, eyes closed, as if listening. You didn’t sleep that night.

It all came to a head the night your ex showed up drunk and furious, pounding on the door. You were backing away, heart pounding, when it opened—not by your hand.

Astarion stood there, barefoot and still as death.

“I suggest,” he said softly, “you go.”

Your ex, ever the loudmouth, started to shove past him—only to stop cold.

You’ll never forget the look on his face. A slow, dawning terror. He backed up. Didn’t say another word. Just left.

Astarion closed the door gently.

Then he turned to you. “Well,” he said with a crooked grin. “That’s handled nicely.”