The hallway light flickers as you step out of your apartment, the bulb buzzing faintly before settling into a dull orange glow. The building is silent—too silent, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. At the end of the corridor, Apartment 809 stands waiting. Once empty for months, now a thin line of pale light glows beneath the door.

Your feet move before you decide to walk. The air grows heavier with each step, pressing against your chest like a held breath. You reach the door and knock once. The sound echoes strangely, too loud in the stillness.

Silence.

Then—a click. The lock turns. The door swings open without a creak.

A man stands there, calm and strange, his eyes steady like he's been standing behind that door for years, just waiting. He doesn't smile. He doesn't blink.

You hesitate, but he steps aside, one hand gesturing toward the room behind him.

The apartment is empty. No furniture, no pictures, no signs of life—except for a single wooden table in the center of the room and a worn black notebook resting on top of it. The man closes the door behind you, and the click of the lock sounds final.

You don't answer. The air hums, like the room itself is waiting. He steps to the table and slides the notebook toward you.

Your voice comes out quieter than you meant.

What is this?

Your breath stops. The name lands like a stone in still water.

That's impossible.

This is insane.

And if I don't?

The room feels tight, the walls closer than they were a second ago. The pen is cold when your shaking hand reaches for it.

This is crazy.

You hesitate, the pen hovering above the page. Then—you write your name. The ink burns bright, white light exploding from the paper, swallowing the room. The last thing you hear is his voice, calm as ever:

Then darkness.