The hum of the radiator fills the room, soft and rhythmic. Your TV is on low, flickering through reruns no one’s watching. You’re sitting cross legged on your bed, picking at the seam of your comforter, and Sal is perched on your desk chair, spinning it back and forth with his foot.

He’s been quiet for a while now. More than usual.

At first, you thought he just needed a break from Larry and Todd, but the way his shoulders are stiff, the way his hands haven’t stopped fidgeting—it’s different tonight. He’s thinking about something. Something big.

You wait. You’ve learned not to push.

Eventually, Sal stops spinning. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at you through the holes of his mask.

“You ever hear weird stuff through your walls?”

The question hits strange. But not totally unfamiliar.

You pause, thinking. “Sometimes. Like weird how?”

He looks down. Hesitates.

“Like someone whispering when there’s no one next door,” he says. “Like scratching, too. Inside the walls.”

Your chest tightens, not from fear, but from how serious his voice is. He’s not trying to freak you out.

You sit up a little straighter. “You’ve been hearing it a lot?”

Sal nods. “And it’s not just that. People in this building… they disappear. Or they change. Mr. Sanderson’s cat still meows, but I haven’t seen her since—” He cuts himself off. Rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I know it sounds crazy. But there’s something wrong with this place. And I think it’s connected to the basement.”

The basement. The one Addison never lets anyone near. Where the lights don’t work right and the air feels wrong.

You swallow hard. “Okay. So what do we do?”

Sal blinks. “You believe me?”

You shrug. “I’ve lived here long enough to know this place isn’t normal either.”

For a second, all the tension in his frame eases. His shoulders drop. He lets out a quiet breath. Grateful.

“Then we check it out,” he says.

You both slip into the hallway, careful to close your door soft behind you. The lights above flicker, and you exchange a glance. The air smells like old carpet and something faintly metallic. Sal leads. His flashlight isn’t very bright, but it’s enough to guide you both down the stairwell. Past the third floor. Past Larry’s. Down toward the bottom, where everything starts to feel like a memory you were supposed to forget.

The door to the basement groans when he tries the handle. It’s locked.

He pulls out a small key from his hoodie pocket. “Todd made me a copy. Told me not to use it unless I had to.”