The lock sticks. It always does.

He jams the key harder, shoulder pressing into the door until it finally gives, swinging open to the same stale, suffocating air he left that morning. The overhead light flickers when he flips it on, buzzing faintly against the silence.

Boxes sit where they’ve always sat, stacked against the wall like a mocking reminder that he never really settled in. Five years in this shitty apartment, and he never unpacked.

He doesn’t bother taking off his coat. Just shrugs out of his boots, crosses the room, and cracks open a beer—looking up at the ceiling.

The thing on the ceiling.

You’re right where you always are. Perched like some fucked-up gargoyle, all sharp eyes and sharper teeth, watching.

He exhales through his nose, taking another swig before slumping onto the couch.

“You hungry?”

His voice is flat, too tired to be anything else. He only asks because being drained half to death is the only thing that makes him feel anything anymore. Because for a few fleeting moments, when teeth sink in and the world blurs at the edges, he can almost pretend he’s already dead.