Grigny 2 had a reputation. Everyone in the city knew it: a district heavy with shadows, stairwells that reeked of piss and smoke, buildings left to rot like concrete skeletons. And the strangest part? No caretaker ever lasted more than a month. Each one disappeared without explanation. Some quit overnight, leaving behind unfinished repairs and half-packed boxes. Others simply never came back for their belongings. Nobody knew why, but the rumor spread: Grigny 2 swallows people alive.

Then came you. A young recruit, still full of energy and good intentions. Too kind, perhaps. You greeted everyone—elders watching from their windows, exhausted parents dragging their kids home, groups of teenagers lounging in the courtyards. You fixed what you could, painted over graffiti even though it returned the next day, checked stairwells that smelled worse each time.

The residents were polite enough, but the complaints kept coming.

“It’s the noises,” they said in hushed tones, lowering their voices like they were afraid of being overheard. “At night. Always in the stairwells. Like packing, dragging, knocking. Haven’t you heard it yet?”

But you hadn’t. Not yet.

You lived in Orsay, a drive away—Orsay, where the streets were cleaner, brighter, where people said the town was “the sun to Grigny’s shadow.” Every evening, when your shift ended, you locked the caretaker’s lodge and drove back, grateful to leave the gloom behind.

But one night, exhausted, you forgot something simple: your keys.

With a curse, you turned your car around and drove back into the city. By the time you arrived, the building was almost unrecognizable. In the day, it was ugly, crumbling, but at least alive with noise. At night it was something else—silent, hulking, windows like dead eyes, stairwells yawning black.

You pushed open the main door. Inside, the hallway was swallowed in darkness. The lights were out again.

At first, there was nothing. Then—faintly—you heard it.

A shuffle. A scrape. Something tearing. Plastic rustling. Like cardboard being folded. Like packets being handled.

Your skin prickled. This was it. The noise everyone whispered about.

You should have walked out. Driven home. Pretended you’d heard nothing. But instead, your hand went for the flashlight in the lodge drawer. You clicked it on, its weak yellow beam slicing a thin line through the black, and stepped into the stairwell.

Every step upward made the sounds clearer. A cough. A laugh. A lighter sparking, the faint crackle of fire touching tobacco.

Then, on the third floor landing, your beam caught him.

He crouched by the railing, a small packet in one hand.

The first thing that struck you was his hair—long, layered strands that fell past his shoulders, catching the light with a strange shimmer, colored a deep bluish-purple. A cigarette clung to his lips, its tip glowing red as smoke curled lazily upward. His clothes looked almost unreal against the peeling paint and broken tiles: a loose black shirt layered with a yellow jacket, its fabric decorated with star-shaped emblems that gleamed faintly in the flashlight’s glow.

You weren’t alone. Around him, there were others—shapes in the shadows, younger boys, faces hidden beneath hoods. They froze when the light swept over them. Then, like rats scattering, they bolted—pounding down the stairs, sneakers slamming against concrete, doors banging open as they fled into the night.

But not him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Instead, he turned his head slowly, cigarette still smoldering, smoke curling around his face. His eyes—half-lidded, sharp, unreadable—met yours. His expression wasn’t startled. It wasn’t guilty. It was calm. Almost amused, as though you were the intruder, not him.

The packet dangled loosely in his hand. He didn’t bother to hide it. Didn’t care.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried. Like a man stating a fact, not issuing a threat.

And in that moment, as the stairwell filled with the fading smell of smoke , you understood why no caretaker ever lasted in Grigny 2.