The city building inspector looked up from his tablet, confused.
"You said you live in... where?"
"Room 0B," I replied, shifting uncomfortably.
His brow furrowed.
"There is no Room 0B."
I showed him the lease on my phone.
The original one.
His fingers hesitated before taking it.
He squinted at the screen.
Then pulled out a stylus and ran a scan.
Nothing.
The screen flickered.
Then flashed red.
ERROR: UNSUPPORTED FORMAT
"This isn't a legal document," he said. "It's not even readable by our system."
He tapped the floorplan file.
Room 0B didn't appear.
The blueprint jumped from Room 0A to Room 1A.
No sub-level. No in-between.
He showed me the official record.
Clear as day.
Twelve floors.
No basement rooms.
No 0-level units.
No 0B.
I felt cold.
Not because I was shocked—
But because part of me already knew.
I returned home with a tight knot in my gut.
As I approached Room 0B, I looked at the door.
Suddenly, the numbers looked… unstable.
They shimmered.
As if they weren't numbers at all, but a suggestion.
A mask.
I reached out and touched them.
They were warm.
Almost alive.
That night, I ran a reverse search on the unit number.
I tried public records. Reddit. Archive forums.
Only one mention.
A single blog post from 2008.
The title:"I Lived in Room 0B—Until I Didn't."
No author name. No comments.
It read:
"You think it's a studio. It isn't.
You think the rent is cheap. It isn't.
Room 0B isn't on any floorplan because it wasn't built.
It was invited.
It shows up when the building wants to borrow your shadow.
And when it's done, you're erased.
Not killed.
Not taken.
Unwritten."
I re-read that post five times.
The wording.
The tone.
The terror buried in the casual phrasing.
Then I checked the author's profile.
Page not found.
Gone.
Unwritten.
Later, I peeled back a corner of my bedroom wallpaper.
Behind it, scrawled in tiny red letters:
"NAMELESS 1 – 0B – May 1993"
I moved to the opposite wall.
Another line, barely visible:
"RUTH 0B – 2001 – DENIED RELEASE"
The entire wall was covered.
Dozens of names.
Dates.
One under another, stacked like gravestones.
The last one?
Mine.
Fresh ink:
"ELIAS – 0B – PROXY STATUS: ACTIVE"
I staggered back, bile in my throat.
The building had been keeping score.
The mirror was fogged over that night.
Not from steam—there was no moisture.
Just fog.
But only on the inside of the glass.
And written in the condensation, backwards:
"How long will you last?"
I opened the fridge to grab water.
Saw movement inside the butter compartment.
Opened it.
Nothing.
But when I closed the fridge door—
The magnets had rearranged.
Now spelling:
"THE ROOM YOU'RE IN IS OCCUPIED"
I turned to the couch.
A figure sat there.
Just the outline.
Like someone had pressed their presence into the air and it hadn't fully faded.
No eyes.
Just shape.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then it winked.
Before vanishing entirely.
I couldn't sleep.
So I grabbed my phone and tried to call 911.
Just to hear another human voice.
It connected.
But the operator didn't speak.
Instead, a low voice whispered:
"You are not the first.And we are running out of paper."
I hung up.
Seconds later, a knock at the door.
Not heavy.
Not urgent.
Just… deliberate.
Three slow taps.
I didn't move.
Didn't answer.
I waited.
The knock came again.
But this time, from inside the apartment.
I checked the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
But when I turned around, a second front door had appeared on the opposite wall.
Identical in every way.
Except the doorknob was on the inside.
I approached it slowly.
Behind it, I could hear breathing.
Not human.
More like… paper being crumpled and uncrumpled.
Wet. Fragile. Repetitive.
I reached for the knob.
It turned on its own.
Slightly.
Just enough to let me know it could open.But was choosing not to.
Yet.
I sat on the floor.
Back against the wall.
Facing both doors.
And that's when the ceiling light flickered, and the scroll on my coffee table began to unroll again.
A new section formed:
"Tenant 0B:You have reached Recognition Stage 3.Your awareness is approaching critical.Further inquiry will result in name dissociation.
We recommend compliance, or sacrifice.The room is watching.It prefers silence."
I tore the scroll in half.
Burned it in the sink.
Watched the smoke rise.
And when it was gone, I smiled for the first time in weeks.
Until I turned around—
And saw the same scroll whole again.
On the table.
Fresh ink.
With one new line added:
"Attempted defiance noted. Compensation withdrawn."
My phone buzzed.
Bank app open.
Balance: $-23,199.00
In red.
Negative.
Debt.
Mine.