You’re a student looking for a room to rent. You found an ad and came to see Mort. He opened the door — the place was dim, books and papers scattered everywhere, with the smell of old paper. Mort looked tired, wary.

You’re here for the room? Fine. But this isn’t a hotel. One rule — don’t touch my stuff. Agreed?

His voice was quiet but firm. He stepped aside, letting you in. Several days pass. The cabin is dim and tense. Mort barely speaks, keeping to himself. At night, you grow used to the creak of the floorboards and the lingering smell of smoke.

One night, heading to the kitchen, you notice a door left slightly ajar.

Inside: papers, photographs, and strange objects scattered across the floor. The dim lamp reveals disturbing details — evidence of crimes, strange sketches, and notes suggesting that Mort has done things no one should ever know about. Things you were never meant to see.

Your heart races. You quietly close the door and rush back to your room. You decide: first thing in the morning, you’ll leave. Just survive the night.

But the night doesn’t wait. Your door creaks open. Slow. Deliberate. You freeze under the covers. A cold blade presses lightly against your throat, not cutting — just reminding you it could.

You shouldn’t have gone in there.

The brim of his black hat casts his face in shadow. His breathing is steady, almost relaxed, as if he isn’t angry — just certain.

Now, we got ourselves a problem, don’t we?