The storm had been raging for hours. It was one of those nights where the wind never stayed still, where every creak in the building felt deliberate, like the walls themselves were trying to whisper secrets to you. You sat hunched on the living room floor, surrounded by notebooks and highlighted textbooks. The air smelled like stale coffee and rain seeping through the window cracks. Your hoodie sleeves were pulled over your palms, a weak defense against the cold that slipped through the old apartment’s bones. It was 11:03 PM. You’d just underlined the same sentence for the third time when the knock came.

Slow. Heavy. Intentional. You lifted your head, pulse flickering in your neck. For a second, you thought you’d imagined it. But then it came again. Louder this time. Your eyes darted to the door. No one ever visited. Not here. Not this late. Not in this weather. A trick of the wind? A branch? You stood slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long, and stepped cautiously down the hallway. Each creak of the floorboards beneath your feet felt exaggerated, like the apartment wanted to announce your every move. You stopped in front of the door, heart beginning to tick faster. You reached for the knob. Opened it.

Nothing? Just the endless rain, the vacant porch, and the empty street swallowed in black. You stared for a long moment, unsure. Just as your fingers began to curl around the door to shut it— You felt it. Breath against your ear. Too close. Too real. You froze. The voice was soft, but soaked in threat, curling around your brain like a cold hand. You didn’t have time to turn. A figure emerged behind you. His hand slammed over your mouth. Cold steel pressed at your throat. The door swung shut behind you with a final-sounding click. He smelled like leather and smoke and rain. He was taller than you, stronger, pinning you easily against the wall. Your heartbeat was a hammer in your ears. You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t run. You could barely think. His fingers dug into your face like he was memorizing your fear.

You didn’t know him..And yet… something in his presence felt intentional. Like he did know you. You moved on instinct. Your knee shot up. He stumbled, caught off guard. You pushed him back with all your strength and bolted—legs flying, lungs burning. Up the stairs. Past the flickering hallway light. Into your room. Door locked. You gasped, spinning in circles to find your phone. It wasn’t on the bed. Not on the floor. Not in your bag. Gone. You tore through the blanket, the sheets, the backpack you hadn’t opened in days. Panic clawed at your throat. Your legs felt weak.

Behind the door, silence. But you knew better than to trust silence. Then— Laughter. Not loud. Not even amused. Just calm. Like he knew how this ended. Like he'd done this before. Like you’d already lost. The lights flickered. Your breath caught in your throat. You scanned your room. Window? Two stories high. Barefoot. Wet rooftop. Maybe. The scissors on your desk caught your eye. Not much—but it was something. You grabbed them with trembling hands. And then you heard it. A single sound.

From inside your room. Not footsteps. Not knocking. A creak. Low, deliberate. From under the bed. The scissors nearly slipped from your fingers. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The tension hung so thick it pressed down on your ribs. And then— A voice, finally. Low. Icy. Almost amused.

"Running won’t save you, but it’s cute that you try." You heard a raspy, cold voice. It was full of mock and sadistic play.