3:33 A.M.
Soren woke up suddenly.
Not the normal kind of waking—
But as if something had shaken her soul from the inside.
The darkness was thick.
The digital clock on the table glowed red.
3:33
Then—
Knock.
Soft.
Three slow taps against the door.
She froze.
Her eyes locked onto the door from where she lay on the couch.
Her heartbeat began to race.
Knock.
Again.
She swallowed.
"W-Who is it?"
No answer.
She stood slowly.
The floor felt ice-cold under her feet.
She walked toward the door.
And pulled it open.
No one.
The hallway was dark.
Still.
Her hands curled into fists.
"If this is a joke, I swear I'll hit you!" she called out, voice trembling despite her effort to sound brave.
She half-closed the door and waited behind it.
Seconds passed.
Knock.
This time—
Closer.
She gasped.
Pressed herself against the door and bent down to look through the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
Completely empty.
But—
Her heart started shaking violently.
Because she felt something.
Right behind the door.
She stepped back.
And then—
She saw them.
Feet.
Directly beneath the door.
But not clear.
Blurry.
Like smoke.
Or thick shadow.
Then came the voice.
Rough.
Broken.
Stretched, like it was dragging itself out of a torn throat.
"Please… help me…"
Her blood ran cold.
Her lips trembled.
"W-Who are you?"
The voice moved closer.
"I'm… the neighbor… upstairs…"
Her breathing quickened.
The neighbor?
Lucian had said there were other apartments.
"I… something happened to me… please… open the door…"
Tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks without warning.
Don't open it.
Her mind screamed.
But her fingers—
Were already gripping the handle.
"Just… quickly," she whispered to herself.
She opened the door slowly.
The hallway was dark.
But something was standing there.
At first, her mind refused to process the shape.
Then—
She saw it.
A face.
Distorted.
As if the skin had melted and been rearranged wrong.
One eye larger than the other, sagging slightly.
The other sunken deep—black. No white.
His mouth—
Torn at the corner nearly to the ear.
Teeth exposed.
Broken.
Stained with blood.
Blood dripped slowly from his forehead.
No sound when it hit the floor.
The smell—
Metallic.
Heavy.
She screamed.
But it didn't fully come out.
As if something strangled the sound in her chest.
She stumbled back into the wall.
Frozen.
Close the door.
Close it!
But it spoke.
Its voice slightly more natural now—
even though it came from a torn mouth.
"Sorry… if I scared you…"
A drop of blood fell onto the doorway.
"I just… needed… help…"
She was crying silently now, her body shaking.
"What… what happened to you?"
It smiled.
And it was the worst thing she had ever seen.
Because the ruined skin stretched further.
"An accident."
Its head tilted slowly.
Not human.
"Sometimes… accidents happen."
A faint cracking sound echoed from inside its neck.
As if bones were shifting back into place.
She gasped and covered her mouth.
"I—I'm sorry… I can't…"
She stepped back again.
Cursing herself over and over.
Why did you open the door? Why?
And then—
Something changed.
The face—
Began to fix itself.
Slowly.
As if the blood were evaporating.
Skin knitting back together.
Eyes sliding into proper place.
Until—
There was only a pale man standing there.
Tired-looking.
Embarrassed.
"I apologize if I disturbed you," he said calmly.
She blinked.
Struggled to breathe.
"I… I was just making sure everyone was alright."
His voice was normal.
Completely normal.
As if it had never been broken.
She wiped her tears.
"I'm… fine."
He gave her a perfectly ordinary smile.
"Good."
He turned.
One step.
Two—
And when she blinked again—
He was gone.
The hallway stood empty.
No blood.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
Soren stood in the doorway, crying silently, her knees trembling.
She turned toward the clock behind her.
3:33
It hadn't changed.
As if time—
Hadn't moved at all.
A soft knock at the door.
This time—
Morning.
Gray light slipped through the curtains.
Soren was sitting on the couch, eyes red, sleep coming only in broken fragments.
Every time she closed her eyes, the distorted face returned.
Knock.
She stood slowly and opened the door.
Lucian stood there, smiling as usual, holding a small paper bag.
"Good morning."
His voice was calm. Normal. As always.
She tried to smile back.
"Morning…"
His gaze lingered on her face a second too long.
"You didn't sleep well."
Not a question.
A statement.
She hesitated.
"Lucian… does anyone live above my apartment?"
Time paused for a fraction of a second.
But his smile didn't.
"You mean the upstairs unit?"
She nodded quickly.
"There was noise. And someone knocked on my door around three-thirty. He said he was the neighbor upstairs."
His smile widened—just slightly.
"The upstairs apartment has been empty for twelve years."
Cold spread through her chest.
"What?"
"No one lives there."
She stepped back without realizing it.
"But he was there. I saw him."
He tilted his head.
"What did you see?"
She stumbled over her words.
"He was… disfigured. And then… I don't know. Maybe I—"
She stopped.
Doubt crept in.
She hadn't slept.
The strange town.
The storm.
The stress.
He raised his brows gently.
"When we're not used to a new place… the mind creates images to fill the silence."
She almost shouted:
It wasn't a dream.
But the words stuck.
Was she losing her balance?
Maybe she had dreamed it.
Maybe she never woke up.
A wave of dizziness hit her.
He stepped closer.
"Soren."
His voice was low. Steady.
"You're safe."
Why did the last word feel heavier than it should?
He gestured to the apartment beside hers.
"I live right here. Next to you."
He opened the door slightly so she could see inside.
Neat. Simple. Normal.
"If anything happens… just knock."
She swallowed.
Then he added lightly:
"By the way, I cook well. Would you like breakfast?"
She blinked.
The normalcy of the offer felt—
Saving.
"…Okay."
—
Minutes later, she was sitting in his apartment.
The air smelled warm.
Fried eggs. Toast. Coffee.
He moved in the kitchen with quiet confidence, as if this were routine.
She asked suddenly:
"What time is it?"
He glanced at his watch.
"8:50."
She hesitated.
"Lucian… what happened twelve years ago?"
He paused.
Then flipped the eggs as if the question were ordinary.
"A suicide."
Cold crept into her fingertips.
"A man lived here. He… liked checking on people."
Lucian turned to face her.
"He would knock on doors to make sure everyone was alright."
Her fingers trembled on the table.
"And one night… he hanged himself in the upstairs apartment."
He said it simply.
Like reading an old newspaper line.
"They found him in the morning. Hanging from the ceiling. Blood dripping from his feet onto the wooden floor."
She stopped breathing.
"This building used to belong to him."
Her eyes widened.
"He was the owner?"
Lucian nodded.
"Ownership changed later."
She stared at him.
"To you?"
A faint smile.
"Yes."
He didn't look wealthy.
Didn't look like an owner.
Didn't look like anything.
"But why—"
He interrupted gently.
"You like verifying things yourself, don't you?"
Her back straightened.
"I want to see the upstairs apartment."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then—
"Alright."
—
They climbed the wooden stairs.
Each step creaked.
The air grew colder the higher they went.
He stopped before an old door at the top floor.
Took out a key.
Unlocked it.
A wave of dusty air hit her.
She stepped inside carefully.
The apartment was truly abandoned.
Furniture covered in gray sheets.
Clouded windows.
Heavy air.
No sign of anyone.
But—
When she stepped forward, she felt something under her shoe.
She looked down.
A dark stain.
Old.
Spread faintly across the wooden floor.
Not fresh.
But unmistakable.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the ceiling.
A small metal hook was still fixed there.
Her voice came out barely a whisper.
"Is that…?"
"Yes," he replied calmly.
"The rope was there."
He glanced at the floor.
"The blood soaked into the wood. They tried cleaning it. Some marks stay."
She shivered.
The apartment was empty.
Truly empty.
No footsteps.
No presence.
Nothing.
And yet—
A weight pressed against her chest.
As if something—
Was watching them from a corner she couldn't see.
They returned to Lucian's apartment.
He closed the door gently.
As if what she had seen minutes ago were nothing more than a small interruption in an ordinary day.
"Tea?" he asked, slipping off his coat.
She nodded.
"I really need something warm."
They sat across from each other.
Steam curled upward from their cups.
The scent was light. Comforting.
Lucian watched the way she held her cup with both hands—
Like she was shielding herself with it.
"So," he said calmly,
"after our romantic little visit upstairs… do you still plan on staying?"
Her brows shot up.
"Romantic?!"
He gave that slow, heavy smile.
"Quiet atmosphere. Ceiling hook. Tragic history. Perfect setting."
She stared at him.
"You're joking. Right?"
"Of course."
A pause.
"Mostly."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Lucian."
He chuckled softly.
"Fine. No more hanging jokes."
She took a sip, trying to ignore the chill that crept through her despite the heat.
"Tell me something… what are the job prospects here? I mean… are there even jobs?"
He leaned back, thinking.
"We have a grocery store, a small bookstore, a clinic, an elementary school… and a café that opens when the owner remembers he owns a café."
She blinked.
"That's… reassuring."
"What did you study?"
A small hesitation.
"Psychology."
His gaze sharpened.
"Really?"
"Yes. Four years. Field training. Assessments. Cognitive behavioral therapy."
A flicker of enthusiasm returned to her voice.
"I worked with anxiety and depression cases. I'm good with trauma, too."
Silence.
Then, very quietly—
"Wonderful."
She frowned.
"Why did you say it like that?"
"I'm just thinking… the town might truly need you."
She laughed lightly.
"Is everyone here mentally unstable?"
He glanced at her sideways.
"Let's just say… some people need someone who listens."
She took another sip.
"And you?"
"Me?"
"Do you need a session?"
Their eyes locked.
Seconds stretched.
Then he smiled.
"If I sat in front of you as a client… would you stay calm?"
She swallowed before she could stop herself.
"Of course. I'm professional."
"Even if I told you I sometimes think about… strange things?"
"Everyone thinks about strange things."
"Even if I told you I enjoy watching people while they sleep?"
She froze.
His eyes widened suddenly, as if realizing what he'd said.
"I'm joking. Obviously."
She stared at him.
"That's not funny."
He laughed quietly.
"Your face was worth it."
She pushed her cup slightly toward him.
"Your humor is disturbing."
He tilted his head.
"I'm trying to appear normal."
"And you're not?"
A slow, unreadable smile.
"Normal is subjective."
She exhaled.
"Well… at least my degree might be useful here."
He nodded.
"I'll speak with the clinic. They might need a psychologist. Or we could dedicate a room in the building for your sessions."
Her eyes widened—this time with genuine excitement.
"Really?"
"I own the place. Remember?"
She had almost forgotten.
"That's amazing. Lucian, thank you. I owe you."
He lifted a hand.
"No gratitude yet. Wait until I start charging rent."
She gasped.
"You said it was temporary!"
He smiled.
"I'm joking."
A beat.
"Maybe."
—
After they finished their tea, he stood.
"How about a tour of the town?"
"A sightseeing trip to a town with no tourists?"
"You'll be the second."
"Who was the first?"
He paused.
Then smiled.
"The man who hanged himself was from out of town."
"Stop! Don't remind me!"
He actually laughed this time.
He reached for the door.
"Come on, psychologist. Let me introduce you to your potential patients."
She hesitated—
Then rose.
Just before he opened the door, she turned to him.
"Lucian."
"Yes?"
"You joke… but you choose very specific things to joke about."
He held her gaze.
Then said lightly—
"Maybe because some truths… if we don't laugh at them, they'll laugh at us."
He opened the door.
The air outside was colder than she expected.
And for a second—
She could have sworn
she heard three faint knocks
from somewhere above them.
Lucian didn't look up.
He just smiled slightly and said,
"Don't worry."
A pause.
"I told you… no one lives up there anymore."
Another pause.
Softer.
"Not since I moved him."