Chapter 1

To save five hundred bucks on rent, I moved into a four-bedroom, one-bathroom shared apartment.

The property agent said my roommates were all high-level professionals working nearby—early risers who came home late, extremely well-mannered.

I'd been living here for half a month and hadn't seen a single soul.

Until that night when I was scrolling through my phone and came across a trending post: "Property Agent Uses Copied Keys to Murder Tenant."

Suddenly, the ventilation window above my head was pushed open, and a withered hand reached down to strangle my neck.

Only in my dying moments did I realize it wasn't some property agent at all.

It was a homeless man who'd been living in the crawlspace above my ceiling this whole time.

One of my "invisible" roommates.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on my first night moving in.

1

The searing pain in my neck shot through my entire body like an electric current.

I gasped and bolted upright in bed.

Before me wasn't that gaunt, twisted face, nor that pitch-black ventilation window. It was the ghostly blue glow of my phone screen.

The time displayed: July 15, 2023, 8:00 PM.

I touched my neck. No ligature marks, but I could still feel the burning sensation of rough nylon rope scraping against skin.

I was breathing heavily, my heart pounding against my ribcage, the sound echoing in this cramped room.

I was alive. Or rather, I had come back to life.

Half an hour from now—or three days from now in my previous life—I would die in this room. Cause of death: strangled by a homeless man hiding in the crawlspace above my ceiling.

I looked around. This was a partitioned room, barely sixty square feet. A single bed, a cheap fabric wardrobe, walls painted a sickly white with bargain paint applied recently to cover the mold underneath.

The air reeked of dampness mixed with the acrid smell of cheap formaldehyde.

To save five hundred dollars, I'd stuffed myself into this coffin-like box.

My banking app was still open to that soul-crushing screen: Balance $342.50. That was everything I had to my name. Not even enough for next month's rent.

What had the landlord said again?

"Six hundred bucks in this neighborhood—where else are you gonna find that? This is a four-bedroom apartment. The other three rooms have high-level finance professionals living in them. Quality people. They leave early, come home late. You probably won't even see them."

Indeed, I wouldn't see them.

In my previous life, I'd lived here for half a month. Even when I got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I never heard a sound from those other three rooms.

But I'd heard other sounds.

Late at night, there would be this scratching noise from above the ceiling—fingernails scraping against wood. And sounds like marbles dropping.

I thought it was rats, so I bought sticky traps.

Even in the moment of my death, that trap still lay pristine on top of the wardrobe, completely clean.

The real "rat" wasn't anywhere near there. He was directly above my head.

I looked up, staring hard at that small ventilation window high on the wall. It had been installed to provide airflow to this windowless room, connecting to the hallway's ceiling space.

In my previous life, that skeletal hand with fingernails caked in black grime had reached out from exactly there.

The terror receded like a tide, replaced by the sharp clarity of someone who'd narrowly escaped death.

I knew that monster was up there right now. Separated only by a thin ceiling, crouched like a giant cockroach, listening to my every move. Perhaps even watching me through some crack I hadn't noticed.

I had to leave. Even if it meant sleeping on the street or in a KFC, I couldn't stay here.

I jumped off the bed as quietly as possible, stuffing my ID, bank card, and the fruit knife I kept for protection into my bag. As for the bedding and clothes—forget them. My life was worth more than those rags.

I reached for the doorknob and gently turned it.

Click.

The lock opened.

I pulled the door open a crack. The living room outside was pitch black. Not normal darkness, but the kind that seemed sealed in thick ink. Heavy blackout curtains covered the windows completely.

Silent. Dead silent.

The three other bedroom doors were shut tight, not a sliver of light beneath any of them.

I held my breath and tiptoed out. With each step, the floor groaned softly. In the stillness of night, these sounds were like thunder.

I didn't dare look back, but I felt a chill down my spine, as if something in that darkness was watching me.

Finally, I reached the front door handle. One of those old-fashioned security doors that needed two full turns to open.

My palms were slick with sweat as I twisted hard. It didn't budge.

I tried again. Still nothing.

My heart sank. The door was deadbolted. Locked from the outside.

With these old security doors, if someone deadbolts them from outside with a key, you can't open them from inside without that key. The agent had only given me a door key, not the deadbolt key.

Who locked it?

Whoever it was, I was now trapped in this giant coffin.

Just then, I heard a sound. Very light, very faint. Like someone rubbing their fingertips against wallpaper.

The sound came from behind me. From above the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

I stiffly turned around.

In the darkness, I could just make out the ceiling access panel at the end of the hallway shifting slightly.

2

That access panel definitely moved. Like something had nudged it from above, revealing a pitch-black crack.

An indescribable stench wafted out from the gap. Sour, reeking of urine, and that smell of unwashed bodies caked in grime. The smell of a homeless person.

He was watching me. He knew I'd discovered the door wouldn't open. He was waiting for me to panic, waiting for me to scream, then savoring my fear like a cat toying with a mouse.

Every hair on my body stood on end. My fingers dug into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm.

I couldn't scream. In this godforsaken place where no one would hear me, screaming would only hasten my death.

I took a deep breath, pretending I just needed to use the bathroom. I turned toward the bathroom, deliberately making my footsteps heavier.

"This damn door, I'll have to get the agent to fix it tomorrow."

I muttered to myself—not loudly, but loud enough for the thing above to hear.

I entered the bathroom and quickly locked the door. The window here faced the hallway, but it had security bars—no way to squeeze through.

The only exit was still the front door. Since I couldn't open it from inside, I'd have to wait for someone to open it from outside. Or... lure someone here.

I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and opened SnapChat to message that seemingly helpful agent—let's call him Mike. This guy's eyes always drifted to my chest when we talked, and he spoke like a creep, but at least he worked for a legitimate agency. He probably wouldn't dare murder someone openly.

"Hey, the front door won't open. I need to go out for something urgent."

I sent the message. No reply.

I tried a FaceTime call. It rang twice, then was declined.

Immediately, a text message popped up.

"Girl, why go out so late? Door's broken, I'll get someone to fix it tomorrow. Just sleep tight. The building's security is great."

Great security? This run-down place didn't even have working streetlights. What security?

And how did he know I wanted to go out just now? How did he reply so fast?

Unless... he was nearby.

A deeper chill ran down my spine.

I remembered a detail from my previous life. When that homeless man was strangling me, I'd heard sounds near the front door. Like keys turning.

Could this whole thing be a setup? The agent bringing in tenants, the property manager collecting rent, and the homeless man... handling the cleanup?

No, impossible. If it were that organized, this criminal operation would've been busted long ago.

More likely, the agent knew something was off here but turned a blind eye to collect his commission. He might even be using this homeless man to scare off tenants, keeping their security deposits.

I gripped my phone, knuckles white. If you're going to be ruthless, don't blame me for fighting back.

I opened the dial pad and pressed 91