She was nineteen and addicted to forgotten places. That’s how she found the house—hidden in a part of the city that felt erased. She leaned her bike against a rusted gate, eyes fixed on the structure as it sagged into itself.

Inside, the air was thick and unmoving. Wallpaper peeled like old scars, and the floor creaked beneath her careful steps. Still, she moved deeper, brushing dust from surfaces, peering into rooms cluttered with broken glass and strange, dark stains.

Upstairs felt different. Quieter. Heavier.

Then she saw them—footprints in the dust.

She hesitated, then followed them down a narrow hallway toward a half-open door. Her pulse quickened as she pushed it open.

A man stood there calm, his voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.

“Who are you… and why are you in my house?”