She was here again. Out on her balcony.
The night air carried a faint chill, brushing against her bare arms, tugging gently at her hair. The street below hummed softly, a few cars rolling by, their headlights stretching long across the pavement before fading into quiet. A streetlamp flickered twice, fighting the wind, spilling its tired orange glow over the rusted gate of the apartment complex.
It had become a habit—this little ritual after dinner.
She would step outside, rest her elbows on the cold railing, and let her mind drift. Sometimes she thought about things that mattered, sometimes about things that didn't. Most nights, she couldn't even tell the difference.
Her head turned to the right. A familiar motion, almost muscle memory by now.
But the neighboring balcony was empty. No one stood there tonight.
Was she expecting him to be there?
No… not really. At least that's what she told herself. But still, some small part of her thought maybe she'd see him again—leaning there in his usual quiet, the faint glow of a cigarette between his fingers, that unreadable face lit by its end. Talking to him had felt strange, different somehow. It wasn't like the empty conversations she had to force with everyone else. He didn't say much, but when he did, it felt like the silence around him actually meant something.
She hated to admit it, but it was better than being alone.
Her eyes drifted downward, back to the street.
The light flickered again. Everything below looked half-asleep. The few parked bikes cast crooked shadows. A paper cup rolled lazily with the wind. Then something caught her attention.
A figure.
Walking slowly along the edge of the road, just past the apartment gate.
She squinted, leaning forward a little. The streetlight barely reached that far.
Who's that?
It was hard to tell from up here. The figure's movements were uneven, heavy somehow—like every step was dragging the body behind it.
"Maybe some drunk," she muttered under her breath. It wouldn't be the first time someone staggered through the complex at night. She still remembered what happened a few nights ago—the chaos, the shouting—but this felt different.
Still, she couldn't look away.
Something about the way that person moved tugged at her curiosity.
The figure turned toward the gate. Its hand reached out, pushing it open with effort. The sound of the metal hinge carried faintly through the air, creaking in rhythm with her heartbeat.
The person stepped under the flickering light. For a moment, it was like the night exhaled.
She leaned in closer.
Black t-shirt.
Black jeans.
Something wrapped around the left hand—dark, soaked maybe. The figure's posture looked… wrong. Shoulders slightly slumped, like every muscle was giving up but still refusing to fall.
Varsha's pulse skipped. Her brows knitted.
She didn't recall anyone in the building who looked like that.
No one moved like that. No one she'd seen before—
Her breath hitched.
It couldn't be, right?
The man lifted his head slightly, just enough for the light to catch his face. For a second, the glow cut through the dark and laid his features bare—tired eyes, pale skin streaked faintly with something darker, the same black hair falling unevenly over his forehead.
Her hand covered her mouth before she even realized.
It was him.
Paul.
Paul tapped the worn button for the fourth floor.
The light blinked red once, then stayed on. He didn't move. Just stood there, breathing quiet but uneven, each inhale shallow, each exhale slower than the last. The faint hum of the elevator filled the empty corridor.
When the doors slid open, he stepped inside.
Metal walls. Faint reflection of himself. Eyes half open. The flicker of fluorescent light above him painted thin lines across his face. He didn't look at it. Just stared forward.
The elevator doors closed again. Silence.
The world felt like it was holding its breath with him.
A soft ring.
The doors opened.
Paul stepped out. The hall was empty. Only the distant hum of electricity and the low whistle of air through a half-open window. His shoes pressed against the floor, leaving faint marks of dust and blood no one would notice until morning.
He walked slowly, shoulders slightly hunched, body tilting just a little to one side. His left hand hung by his side, wrapped in something dark. The light above him buzzed weakly, stuttering every few seconds.
Room 398.
Room 400.
Room 402.
As he passed 402, his eyes flicked up—movement.
Someone was standing further down the hallway.
Right beside the door of 404. His room.
He stopped walking.
The world tilted for a second, like the floor had shifted under his feet. His breathing caught, the weight of exhaustion pressing deeper into his chest.
The light above flickered again. White. Harsh. Blinding. It blurred everything for a second. He raised his head slowly, adjusting his eyes.
The shape at the end of the hall came into focus—still, unmoving.
Mia…
The name slipped out, barely a whisper. His voice cracked dry in the silence.
He took another step forward. Then another.
The shape sharpened, clearer now. His sight steadied against the bright glare spilling from the ceiling.
No.
Not Mia.
The figure wasn't outside his door. It was by the next one.
405.
Varsha.
God… Varsha said under her breath, almost running toward him. "What happened to you?"
Paul didn't answer. He didn't feel like he needed to. His eyes were half-open, unfocused, like he was there but not really. She stopped beside him, scanning his body from head to toe.
Blood was dripping from the cloth wrapped around his left hand, dark against his skin. His face was blank, but pain carved itself there in quiet lines. His black shirt clung to him, soaked through with sweat and dust.
Varsha hesitated. She didn't even know why she was here. She could've just ignored him, turned around, and gone back into her apartment room like nothing happened. She didn't owe him anything.
But then she remembered—he'd helped her once. Maybe this was just repayment. That's all.
She reached out, trying to lift his arm, to steady him.
Paul jerked it away. "Don't need help." His voice came low, barely above a whisper.
Then he stumbled.
Varsha caught him by the waist before he hit the ground. "Oh… cheez. Don't give me that, alright? You can barely stand." She shifted his weight onto her shoulder, grunting as she adjusted his arm over her back. "And for the record, I'm only doing this to repay the favor. That's all."
Paul didn't argue. Maybe he couldn't.
They started walking, slow steps toward his room. Each one sounded heavier than the last.
"Ew," Varsha said suddenly, wrinkling her nose. "You're drunk, aren't you? Your breath smells like a whole bar."
Paul turned his face toward the wall, not replying.
"So what, you fell on the street or got in a fight with someone?" she asked, glancing sideways at him.
"Just tripped," he murmured.
"You don't even know how to lie properly, do you?" she said, half mocking, half worried. "You look like someone folded you up and threw you in a washing machine."
She didn't know why she said that. Maybe to break the silence, maybe to keep herself from asking the real questions—like who did this to you?
She remembered the night she'd seen him fight before, the cold precision in his movements, the way he didn't flinch even when things got ugly. Back then, he'd looked untouchable.
But now…
Who could have done this to him?
They reached Room 404. Varsha carefully eased his arm off her shoulder, letting him lean on the wall. His body swayed slightly. His jaw clenched, holding back a groan that slipped through anyway.
"You sure you're gonna be fine?" she asked, her tone softening. "Should I call someone? Maybe an ambulance, or a doctor?"
"No." Paul's reply came sharp, fast. "I'm fine. Don't need help. You should go."
Varsha flinched back at the tone. She took a small step away, watching him quietly.
Paul reached into his back pocket, pulling out the small key to his room.
"You know," she said, her voice turning lighter, trying to defuse whatever wall he'd built up. "You'd make a great headline. 'Silent kid found drunk outside his apartment, body folded like old laundry.' Sounds catchy, doesn't it?"
Paul didn't react. He fit the key between his fingers, raised it toward the lock. He knows she won't tell anyone.
Anyone? You sure she won't tell? Like her? Who was afraid. But... Not her. She seems perfectly fine.
Who knows when you go to school tommorow morning and heard the story of yourself?
Better shut her up I'd say. Don't take any chances.
The moment words reaches his ears? Game over.
The key slipped from his hand, clinking softly against the marble floor.
He stood still for a moment, silent. Then slowly turned.
Varsha was still there, looking right at him.
He raised his head, lips parting slightly, but she spoke first.
"You can ask if you need a hand?" She traced his body. "But i don't think you need one, or... do you?"
Paul didn't respond. His throat tightened. He bent down, reaching for the fallen key.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly above. His head started to feel heavy. The edges of the world blurred, pulling away like a curtain.
He grabbed the key. Tried to straighten up.
Then everything went blank.