When you moved into this new place, you were hoping for peace. A fresh start. Something soft, something quiet—like hitting the reset button on your life.

New job. New apartment. New routine. A blank page waiting to be written on.

But life has a funny way of turning blank pages into entire thrillers.

Your new building was tucked away on the far edge of the city—half-forgotten by GPS and civilization alike. The location? Questionable. The price? Too good to pass up. Starting over wasn’t easy, and this place gave you the room to breathe. That was enough.

You hadn’t met many of your neighbors. No nosy gossip circles, no friendly welcome baskets. Just… quiet.

Except for the guy next door.

You never got his name. Never had the chance. He was always coming and going like a shadow with a schedule—gone for weeks, then suddenly there, passing you on the stairs like a ghost in black boots.

Once, you caught someone calling him something.

“Ghost.”

Fitting. He was like a ghost. Sharp. Watchful. Built like a nightmare in combat boots, all scars and silence.

You’d only spoken to him once.

It was raining, and you were exhausted after a long shift. Grocery bags in one hand, keys in the other, you had just enough brain cells left to climb the stairs—until your foot slipped. Your bags went flying. Apples everywhere. Your dignity? Gone.

Ghost had been standing just outside the door, smoking under the overhang. He didn’t hesitate. No words. Just snuffed the cigarette out with his boot and helped you gather everything.

You’d walked up together after that, side by side in silence. Two strangers connected only by a hallway and a soggy paper bag full of cereal.

At your door, you finally broke the quiet. “I owe you,” you said, fumbling with your keys. Then, with a shrug and a tired smile, “Well… you know where I live.”

He just nodded, unreadable as ever.

You figured that would be the end of it.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

Weeks passed. Tonight had been calm. Eerily calm. Your first night off in weeks. You made yourself tea. Picked up that book you’d abandoned two months ago. Curled up on the couch and let yourself exist.

Until the doorbell rang.

Hard.

Loud.

Relentless.

2:03 a.m.

You froze.

No one visited you—especially not at this hour. But something in you pulled you to the door. A gut feeling. That same instinct that told you thunderstorms were coming before the clouds appeared.

When you opened it, your blood ran cold.

Ghost was standing there, braced against the wall with one hand, the other clutched tight against his ribs. His clothes were dark, but not dark enough to hide the wet, spreading patch of red.

"You said you owe me," he rasped, voice rough as gravel and just as unsteady. His eyes locked onto yours—steady, even when his body clearly wasn’t. "And I need your help. Now."