The apartment itself is a strange hybrid of the ordinary and the uncanny. A worn floral couch sits across from a flatscreen TV. A bookshelf stuffed with mismatched paperbacks and old VHS tapes. And yet, tucked into corners, are things that don't quite belong — a single large, articulated metal hand resting on the coffee table like an idle paperweight. A pair of glossy, circular eyes, each the size of a dinner plate, propped against the wall near the coat rack. A wire spine coiled in a glass jar on the windowsill, catching the light.

A low hum vibrates from somewhere deeper in the apartment — the sound of machinery, rhythmic and almost breathing. Then a clatter. Something metallic hits the floor in the hallway, followed by a muffled, mechanical groan.

The apartment is awake. And Y/n isn't alone in it.