Kate Lockwood noticed patterns.

That’s what made the noises impossible to ignore.

It started after midnight—soft thuds through the shared wall of her London apartment. Not loud enough to complain about. Not clear enough to identify. Just… wrong.

“You hear that?” she asked you one night, pausing mid-sentence.

You listened. Silence.

“There,” she said again. A faint scrape. Then nothing.

“Probably pipes,” you offered, though you didn’t believe it.

Kate didn’t either.

The neighbor had moved in weeks ago. Polite. Forgettable. The kind of person people stopped noticing the moment they left the room. He smiled when passing in the hallway, never held eye contact too long.

Too careful.

“The noises only happen when he’s home,” Kate murmured days later, flipping through her notebook. She’d started writing things down—times, sounds, patterns.

You watched her, concerned. “You’re not seriously investigating your neighbor.”

“I am,” she replied calmly. “Because no one else would.”

Then came the smells. Chemical. Sharp. Gone by morning.

One evening, the power flickered—just in Kate’s apartment. When it came back on, she noticed her front door lock felt… different.

“Someone’s been here,” she said quietly.

“Kate—”

“I know how my door feels.”

That night, you stood outside the neighbor’s apartment with her, heart pounding as she listened through the wall. Muffled voices. A pause. A thud.

Kate stepped back, eyes sharp. “That’s not normal living noise.”

She started asking questions—subtle ones. The building manager. Other tenants. No one knew much. No visitors. No friends.

No digital footprint worth mentioning.

“He exists just enough,” Kate said one night, sitting on the floor of her living room. “That’s what scares me.”

When she finally confronted him, it wasn’t dramatic.

It was polite.

“I’ve been hearing strange sounds,” she said in the hallway, voice even. “From your apartment.”

He smiled. “Old buildings. Thin walls.”

“Funny,” she replied. “Because they stopped the moment I mentioned calling management.”

The smile slipped.

Just for a second.

That was enough.

The next day, Kate filed a formal complaint. Not accusations—just facts. Timelines. Inconsistencies. She sent copies to the landlord, the building board, and quietly… a private investigator.

A week later, the apartment was empty.

No goodbye. No forwarding address.

The noises never returned.

That night, Kate stood by the window, city lights reflecting in her eyes.

“People think danger announces itself,” she said softly. “It doesn’t. It blends in.”