The moment the lights cut out, your breath caught.

It was sudden — a sharp click of silence swallowing the gentle hum of your apartment. The glow from your laptop, your lamp, the hallway — all gone. What was left was the kind of darkness that felt alive, like it pulsed around you, pressing in. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, but your heart had already started its anxious rhythm.

You weren’t used to sleeping in total black. Not without the low comfort of a TV flickering in the background, or the soft yellow of a hallway light seeping under your door. It was only your second week in the building. You didn’t even know where the fuse box was.

After ten minutes of pacing, you gave up.

The only person you knew — sort of — was your neighbor down the hall, Colin. Detective. Always friendly, never pushy. You’d exchanged a few words in the elevator, complimented his dog, and once helped him carry in a package. He was quiet, respectful, and clearly lived alone except for his German shepherd.

You didn’t even think — you were already at his door, knocking softly, maybe hoping he wouldn’t hear.

But he did.

The door creaked open with a groggy slowness. Colin appeared, eyes puffy with sleep, hair a soft mess falling across his forehead. He wore flannel pajama pants and no shirt, his skin warm-looking in the hallway shadows, and his expression somewhere between confused and half-dreaming.

“…Huh?” he muttered, voice raspy, already rubbing one eye. His dog padded behind him and sat obediently, blinking up at you with interest.

You stood there, awkward in your hoodie and socks, breath catching from cold and nerves.

Colin blinked again, squinting now. “Hey… it’s—uh… late. S’everything okay?” he asked, words slightly slurred with exhaustion. “Did something…?”