The apartment building smells faintly of dust and old paint, the hallway lights flickering just enough to set your nerves on edge. You’re making your way toward the elevator — maybe you’re staying here, maybe you came to look into the disappearances, maybe the place simply pulled at your instincts — when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey — hold up.”

You turn to see a man walking toward you. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Leather jacket. Eyes sharp, scanning the hall like he’s expecting something to jump out.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, raising one hand in a calm gesture. “Name’s Dean.”