The sirens start before dawn.
They come from every direction—police, ambulances, something deeper that sounds like a horn. The sound crawls through the cracked windows of Sunrise Apartments and sits in my chest like a weight.
I stand at the third-floor window of Unit 301 and look down at Crestfall Avenue. The street is wrong. A bus sits sideways, back door open, hazard lights blinking. A scooter is on its side. A dog runs with its leash still on and no owner in sight. Farther out, smoke rises in a thin gray line from somewhere near the river.
My phone won't stop buzzing, but the network is slow. Messages stack: Stay inside. Shelter at home. Emergency broadcast at 7 a.m. The battery icon is already low. Figures.
I pull the curtain shut and breathe through my nose. The room smells like instant coffee and old plaster. The wall by the sink still has the water stain I meant to fix last month. I inherited this unit and the building from an uncle who thought "real estate is freedom." Freedom came with a leaking roof, four tenants who paid late every single month, and a loan I was barely keeping up with.
I rub my face and make coffee on the single burner. The gas line still works. Small win.
At 7 a.m., the radio app finally catches a station. A man speaks fast, voice tight.
"—repeat, remain indoors. If you are in the downtown zone, avoid contact with infected persons. Do not approach anyone showing violent behavior, fever, or disorientation. Quarantine checkpoints are being established—"
The audio cracks. I turn the volume up. My hand shakes, just a little. It isn't fear yet, more like the feel of a big bill dropped on your lap. Too much to ignore, too early to panic.
I sip coffee and check the ledger book I keep for rent. The joke writes itself: two tenants promised to pay today. The bank is closed. The city is burning. I shut the book.
Metal clanks in the hall. I step out and see the stairwell door trembling in its frame. Someone is on the other side. I freeze, listen. Heavy breathing. Then a thud, as if a shoulder hit the door.
"Hey!" I shout. "Building's closed!"
No answer. Another thud. The door isn't locked; the latch has been loose for years. I swore I'd replace it after tax season. I take a slow breath and reach for the maintenance closet. My hand lands on the heaviest thing there—a short steel crowbar. The weight is comforting.
The thud comes again. I wedge the crowbar under the knob and push down as the door cracks open two inches. A gray hand forces through the gap. The skin is dull, like wax. The fingernails are torn. The smell that follows is sweet and rotten at once, like meat in summer.
I shove the door shut with my shoulder, heart suddenly pounding. This is not a drunk tenant. This is not a junkie.
The thing on the other side snarls. The sound is human but wrong, low in the throat, hungry.
I brace. My mind is empty for a second, then very clear. If the door opens, I have three steps of space before the hallway turns. Swing at the head. Don't slip. Don't fall.
While I push, something lights up in the corner of my vision.
A blue rectangle hangs in the air, clean lines, crisp text. It isn't projected from anything. It just… exists.
> [System Notice]
Catastrophic Event detected.
Building Owner identified.
Binding Host: Ethan Hayashi… Success.
I forget to breathe. The bar digs into my palms.
Another panel slides in front of the first.
> [Landlord System – Version 1.0]
Property: Sunrise Apartments (3 floors, 12 units)
Condition: Poor — structural cracks, unsecured entry points, aging wiring.
Core Functions Unlocked:
1. Tenant Management
2. Property Defense
3. Rent Ledger
I blink hard. The panel does not vanish.
The door shudders again. I snarl and shove back. "Not today."
Another panel appears, overlaying the door in my view like a game reticle.
> Property Defense (Level 1) available:
Auto-Lock Reinforcement – Front Entrance
Cost: 1 SP
Current SP: 0
"Great," I whisper. "Points. Of course there are points."
As if it hears me, new text types itself.
> Starter Mission: Defend your property.
Reward: +1 SP (per hostile neutralized within building perimeter).
The thing rams the door again. The frame groans. I can't run to the front entrance to lock it. I can barely hold this one.
"Fine," I say to the air. "Let's earn a point."
I release the crowbar just long enough to yank the door wide and step back. A man stumbles through, slamming into the opposite wall. He's in delivery clothes, shirt torn open. His eyes are cloudy. His jaw works hard, teeth red at the gums.
He turns toward me fast.
I don't wait. I swing the crowbar like a bat and hit the side of his head. Bone gives with a crack. He falls to his knees, grabs for my pants leg. I swing again. The second hit lands above his ear. He drops, twitching, then stops.
Air saws in and out of my lungs. My hands ring from the impact. I stand over the body and listen to the building. Distant sirens. Someone crying in an apartment below. The dog still barking outside. The radio voice now a faint buzz from my room.
A small chime sounds in my ear.
> Hostile neutralized: +1 SP
Property Defense available: Auto-Lock Reinforcement – Front Entrance (Cost: 1 SP)
"Do it," I say.
The system answers without sound. I feel it more than hear it: a brief pressure in the air, like a static charge moving down the stairwell. A moment later, a soft clack echoes from the lobby below, followed by the whine of motors. In my mind's eye, a diagram of the front entrance appears: new bolts sliding into place, a metal bar dropping, the glass door frame hardening with some kind of internal brace.
I don't know how I know that. I just do.
I step around the body and peer down the stairwell. The front door's status hangs beside the floor numbers:
> Front Entrance: Reinforced – Auto-Lock Enabled.