Vincent’s apartment felt smaller now. The air seemed heavier, pressing in on him from every corner. He paced the length of the room, each step deliberate, his crowbar clutched tightly in one hand. The weight of it was comforting, a reminder that he could still fight, still defend himself, even as the clock ticked steadily toward the unknown.
The wearable camera blinked faintly on his chest, a quiet observer of his spiraling anxiety. Every so often, the soft hum of the static-filled radio punctuated the silence, a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone—even if no one else was physically present. The countdown loomed over him, its relentless descent carved into his thoughts. Every glance at the clock made his stomach tighten.
Vincent’s apartment felt smaller now, the walls pressing inward as if they were slowly closing the space around him. The air was heavier, thicker, clinging to his skin with an oppressive weight that made every breath a conscious effort. He paced the length of the room, the crowbar clutched tightly in one hand, its cold metal biting into his damp palm. The rhythmic thud of his boots against the worn floor echoed through the small space, the sound strangely hollow, as though the apartment itself were empty and vast.
The countdown glared at him from the phone screen. 12:00:00 Remaining. Each digit pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat, and with every passing second, his anxiety ratcheted higher. He couldn’t stop checking it, his eyes darting back every few moments as though expecting the numbers to leap forward, to betray him somehow. Time felt slippery now, each minute dragging and yet vanishing too quickly, slipping through his fingers like water.
The radio let out a crackle of static, louder than before. Vincent froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. He whipped around, crowbar raised, scanning the room as though expecting something to materialize in the shadows. The static fell back into its usual low hum, but the sound lingered in his ears, prickling the back of his neck like a phantom presence.
“Nothing,” he muttered, his voice cracking from the strain. “It’s nothing.”
But it didn’t feel like nothing. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as he forced himself to move again, to resume his pacing. The camera on his chest blinked faintly, its tiny light a quiet observer to his unraveling state. Every so often, he would reach up and press the button, switching the SD card when the internal clock told him it was full. The act was mechanical, rehearsed now—a habit that tethered him to some semblance of routine. The filled SD cards sat in a box near his backpack, neatly arranged despite the chaos that swirled inside his head.
The backpack itself was always within arm’s reach, a constant presence that reassured and burdened him in equal measure. It was stuffed with everything he thought he might need: flashlight, duct tape, first-aid kit, extra SD cards, water bottles, protein bars. Essentials. The weight of it was a comfort, a reminder that he wasn’t completely powerless, but it also served as a stark reminder of the unknown he was preparing for.
He stopped pacing and stood by the kitchenette, his fingers tapping restlessly against the counter. The clock on the phone was merciless, ticking down with relentless precision. 11:37:24 Remaining.
Vincent let out a sharp breath, snatching a bottle of water from the counter. He twisted the cap off with more force than necessary, the plastic groaning in protest. The water was cool and soothing against his dry throat, but it did little to settle the knot twisting in his stomach. He set the bottle down, his gaze lingering on it for a moment before drifting back to the door.
The door. It loomed at the end of the hallway, its smooth surface unremarkable and yet impossibly menacing. Vincent’s eyes lingered on it longer than he intended, his mind replaying the soft knock he’d heard earlier, the memory sharp enough to make his heart skip. The thought of someone—or something—standing just beyond it made his skin crawl.
A faint creak broke the silence, the sound so subtle that he almost missed it. Vincent’s head snapped toward the source, his grip on the crowbar tightening until his knuckles turned white. The sound had come from the door. He was sure of it. His breath hitched, his body going rigid as he stared at the doorframe, waiting for something—anything—to happen.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. Nothing moved. The door remained still, its deadbolt firmly in place, the peephole dark and unyielding. Vincent’s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the faint hum of the radio. He considered approaching it, his muscles tensing with the thought, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.
Not yet. He wasn’t ready.
Instead, he resumed his pacing, each step heavier than the last. His boots scuffed against the floor as he moved, the crowbar swinging slightly with the rhythm of his stride. The static from the radio filled the silence, a sound he had come to loathe and rely on in equal measure.
<hr>
The air seemed thicker now, the room quieter, as though even the static from the radio had dulled in deference to the oppressive weight of the moment. Vincent stopped pacing, his body sagging with the realization that another hour had slipped by. He leaned heavily against the counter, his grip on the crowbar loosening as exhaustion crept into his limbs. His head swam, his vision blurring at the edges, but he shook it off, forcing himself to stay alert.
“You’re fine,” he whispered, the words trembling on his lips. “Just tired.”
But he wasn’t fine. He knew that. The tiredness wasn’t just physical—it was seeping into his mind, twisting his thoughts, making everything feel heavier and harder to hold onto. The clock on the phone blinked mercilessly. 10:00:00 Remaining. The sight of it made his stomach churn, his pulse quickening despite the leaden weight in his chest.
The radio crackled again, louder this time, a sharp burst of noise that made him flinch. He turned toward it, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the faintly glowing device. The static seemed different now, shifting in tone and pitch like a voice trapped beneath the surface, trying to break free.
Vincent took a step closer, his boots scuffing softly against the floor. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the dial, before finally reaching out to adjust it. The static hissed and shifted, the sound rising and falling like the breath of some unseen thing. His heart thudded in his chest as he twisted the knob, trying to catch any trace of coherence in the noise.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. “Say something.”
The static continued to hum, unyielding and inscrutable. He turned the dial again, his movements growing more frantic, but the radio refused to give him anything more. With a frustrated growl, he switched it off, the silence that followed deafening in its finality.
A faint tapping sound broke through the stillness. Vincent froze, his blood running cold as he turned toward the source. The sound was soft and irregular, like the faint drumming of fingertips against glass.
The window.
He moved cautiously, his heart hammering as he approached the blinds. The tapping continued, each strike sending a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system. His grip on the crowbar tightened, the weight of it reassuring as he reached out with his free hand.
The blinds rustled softly as he pulled them back, revealing the darkened street outside. The windowpane was clear, unbroken, and the street was empty. No movement. No shadows. Nothing.
Vincent let the blinds fall back into place, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the faint hum of the radio as he backed away from the window. The tapping had stopped, but the weight of it lingered, pressing against his thoughts like an unanswered question.
He slumped against the wall, his legs trembling beneath him as he slid down to the floor. The crowbar rested across his lap, its cold surface grounding him as he forced himself to breathe. His head drooped slightly, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion, but he didn’t dare close them.
The clock ticked forward relentlessly. 9:37:12 Remaining.
Vincent stared at the phone, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. The countdown felt like a noose tightening around his neck, each second pulling him closer to something he couldn’t define. His mind buzzed with exhaustion, his thoughts fraying at the edges, but he clung to one simple truth:
He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t rest. Not yet.
<hr>
Vincent sat on the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall, the crowbar lying across his lap. The hard surface dug into his shoulders, but he welcomed the discomfort—it kept him awake. His head drooped slightly, his neck aching from the strain of holding it upright for so long. He forced his eyes open again, blinking against the heavy pull of exhaustion.
The clock on the phone glared at him from the table. 7:00:00 Remaining. The numbers felt etched into his mind, each second that passed like a sharp chisel chipping away at his sanity.
The radio continued its quiet hum in the background, the static soft but ever-present, filling the oppressive silence of the apartment. Vincent’s breaths were shallow and uneven, each one a conscious effort as he fought the relentless weight pressing down on him. The air felt thick, almost tangible, like a dense fog clinging to his skin. His chest tightened with each inhale, as though the apartment itself were trying to suffocate him.
A faint sound broke through the haze, pulling him from the edge of sleep. Tap. Tap. Tap. The noise was irregular, soft, like fingertips gently drumming against glass.
Vincent’s heart skipped a beat, his head snapping toward the window. The blinds were drawn, their pale fabric outlined faintly by the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. The tapping came again, light and sporadic, as if whatever was causing it was toying with him.
He grabbed the crowbar, his fingers trembling as he pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, unsteady beneath him, but he forced himself to move. Each step toward the window was slow, deliberate, his breath hitching with every tap. The sound seemed to grow louder as he approached, reverberating in his ears like a drumbeat.
When he reached the blinds, he hesitated, his hand hovering just above the edge. His mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. What if something was out there? What if it wasn’t?
With a sharp tug, he pulled the blinds open.
Nothing.
The window was clear, the street beyond empty and still. The faint glow of the streetlamp illuminated the asphalt below, casting long, undulating shadows across the pavement. Vincent scanned the area, his eyes darting from one corner of the street to the next, searching for any sign of movement.
But there was nothing. No figure lurking in the shadows, no strange shape pressed against the glass. Just the empty street and the faint hum of the radio behind him.
Vincent let the blinds fall back into place, stepping away from the window with a shaky breath. His chest felt tight, his heart pounding so loudly that it seemed to echo in the silence. “It’s nothing,” he muttered to himself, the words hollow and unconvincing.
He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting once more. The crowbar rested across his lap, its cold metal biting into his skin as he gripped it tightly. The tapping didn’t return, but the phantom echo of it lingered in his mind, twisting his thoughts into knots.
The clock ticked forward relentlessly. 6:37:43 Remaining.
<hr>
Vincent’s pacing had become erratic now, his movements jittery and uneven. The exhaustion had settled deep into his bones, each step feeling like a monumental effort. His hands shook as he adjusted the strap of the backpack slung over one shoulder, the weight of it a constant reminder of his fragile preparation.
The camera blinked steadily on his chest, its faint light reflecting off the darkened windows as he moved. He glanced at the phone on the desk. 4:00:00 Remaining. The sight of it made his stomach twist, his pulse quickening despite the crushing fatigue. Four hours. It felt like both an eternity and an instant.
The radio let out a sudden burst of static, loud and sharp, cutting through the oppressive silence. Vincent spun toward it, his crowbar raised, his breath catching in his throat. The static faded quickly, replaced by a low, rhythmic hum that seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart.
“Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. He approached the radio cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he reached out to adjust the dial. The hum grew louder for a moment, then stopped abruptly, leaving only the faint hiss of static behind.
And then, a voice.
“Soon.”
The word was clear, sharp, and unmistakable. Vincent stumbled back, the crowbar slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. His chest heaved as he stared at the radio, his mind racing to process what he’d just heard. The word echoed in his ears, burrowing into his thoughts like a splinter.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, no, no.”
The radio fell silent again, its red power light blinking steadily. Vincent didn’t move, his feet rooted to the spot as his thoughts spiraled out of control. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his vision swimming as the edges of the room seemed to darken and close in around him.
He forced himself to pick up the crowbar, the metal cold and reassuring in his trembling hands. His gaze darted to the clock. 3:47:18 Remaining. The sight of the countdown sent a fresh wave of dread coursing through him, but he couldn’t look away. Time was slipping through his fingers, pulling him inexorably toward whatever awaited at zero.
<hr>
Vincent sat on the edge of his bed, his body hunched forward, the crowbar resting heavily across his knees. His head drooped, his eyelids fluttering closed for a fraction of a second before he snapped them open again. Every muscle in his body ached, his exhaustion pressing down on him like a physical weight.
The apartment was unbearably quiet now, the faint static of the radio reduced to a distant hum. The camera on his chest continued to blink steadily, its soft light the only movement in the stillness. Vincent’s gaze drifted to the backpack at his feet, its contents meticulously packed and ready. He had checked it at least a dozen times in the past hour, ensuring that everything was exactly where it should be.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The clock on the phone blinked. 2:00:00 Remaining. The sight of it made his stomach churn, a wave of nausea washing over him as the reality of his situation closed in. Two hours. Two hours until… what? The question had haunted him for hours, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t have an answer, and the uncertainty was worse than any tangible threat.
A faint creak broke the silence, pulling Vincent’s attention to the door. His heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the shadowed outline of the frame. The sound was soft, almost imperceptible, but it set every nerve in his body on edge.
He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him as he adjusted the strap of his backpack. The flashlight clipped to his shoulder strap jostled slightly with the movement, its weight a small comfort in the overwhelming darkness. The crowbar felt heavier now, its weight dragging at his arms as he raised it defensively.
The seconds ticked by, each one stretching into an eternity. Vincent’s breaths were shallow and uneven, his chest tight as he waited for something—anything—to happen. The creak didn’t come again, but the tension in the air was suffocating, pressing down on him with an invisible force.
The clock ticked forward. 1:57:43 Remaining.
Vincent tightened his grip on the crowbar, his knuckles white against the cold metal. His gaze stayed fixed on the door, his mind racing with possibilities. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Not now. Not this close to the end.
<hr>
30 Minutes Remaining.
Vincent stood in the center of the room, the crowbar gripped tightly in his hands. The backpack was slung over one shoulder, its weight pressing into him like a physical reminder of his preparation. The room felt unbearably quiet now, the radio’s static barely audible in the background.
His eyes darted between the clock and the door, the countdown ticking steadily toward whatever was coming. His breaths came shallow and quick, his exhaustion forgotten in the face of rising dread.
“What happens when it hits zero?” he whispered, his voice cracking.
The radio offered no answer, the static continuing its unrelenting hum. The camera blinked steadily on his chest, recording every second of his fear.
Vincent closed his eyes, gripping the crowbar so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Whatever was coming, he would face it. He had no other choice.
Vincent crouched low in the dimly lit kitchen, his back pressed against the cold cabinets. His legs ached from hours of pacing, his knees creaked with every slight movement, but he stayed still, poised like a coiled spring. The crowbar in his hands felt slick with sweat, its weight a lifeline as his tired mind spiraled.
The backpack sat firmly over one shoulder, its strap digging into his skin with a dull ache he barely registered anymore. Clipped to the strap was his flashlight, its lens dark but ready at a moment''s notice. The radio was strapped to the side, its faint static a constant background noise that seemed to vibrate in his chest. The phone lay on the counter nearby, its screen casting a faint, too-bright glow that felt like an intrusion in the otherwise shadowed room. The light burned at his bleary eyes, making his already fragile focus waver.
His breaths came shallow and uneven as he tried to steady himself. He had stayed awake for over 24 hours now, and the toll was undeniable. His head swam with exhaustion, his thoughts thick and sluggish like molasses. The edges of his vision seemed to pulse and darken, his peripheral awareness fading in and out as if his body were moments away from forcing him into unconsciousness.
“Stay awake,” he whispered to himself, the words hoarse and dry. “You’ve come this far. Don’t lose it now.”
His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. He wanted water, but the idea of moving, of breaking his focus, felt impossible. His body was a bundle of frayed nerves, each one stretched thin and ready to snap. The air in the apartment felt oppressive, thick with an invisible weight that pressed down on him with every breath. Even his own skin felt foreign, hypersensitive to every shift in the stale air.
He tightened his grip on the crowbar, the muscles in his arms screaming from the constant tension. His fingers felt like they might cramp, but he didn’t dare loosen his hold. His gaze flickered toward the door at the end of the hall, the faint outline of it visible in the gloom. Every sense was trained on it, every nerve in his body poised for the moment it moved.
One minute.
The countdown on his phone had dwindled down to a single minute. The thought sent a spike of adrenaline through his system, jolting him upright despite the heaviness dragging at his limbs. The static from the radio seemed to grow louder, more insistent, filling the room like a living presence. It wasn’t just static anymore, though. Beneath it, faint and insidious, there was a new sound—a soft, hissing noise.
Vincent froze, his ears straining to catch it. The noise was subtle, just barely audible over the hiss of the radio, but it was there. A low, constant hiss, like air escaping through a crack, coming from the door. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes locked onto the shadowy outline of the door, his breathing shallow and uneven.
“What the hell...” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. The words felt too loud in the oppressive quiet, but he didn’t care.
He adjusted his position slightly, the backpack shifting on his shoulder with a faint rustle. His legs screamed in protest as he shifted his weight, trying to get into a position where he could strike if needed. His tired mind replayed every survival horror game he’d ever played, the ones where the player’s weapon was their last line of defense against the unknown. He clung to those memories like a mantra, trying to steel himself.
The hissing grew louder, shifting into a faint, rhythmic cadence that made his skin crawl. His grip on the crowbar tightened further, his knuckles white against the dark metal.
And then it started.
The knock.
A single, soft tap, so quiet it was almost imperceptible. It came from the door, deliberate and measured, like a test. Vincent’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as his eyes locked onto the door. His body was rigid, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. He counted the seconds in his head, waiting for the next knock.
It came again. Slightly louder this time, but still slow, methodical.
Tap.
…
Tap.
…
Tap.
Each sound sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through him, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as his instincts screamed at him to act. But act how? Run? Fight? Freeze? The options tumbled through his mind in a chaotic swirl, each one feeling equally impossible.
He forced himself to breathe, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, trying to quiet the storm raging in his head. His eyes never left the door. It loomed like a barrier between him and whatever was on the other side, its surface smooth and unyielding. The knocks continued, steady and unrelenting, their rhythm almost hypnotic.
Vincent’s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the static, the hissing, even the sound of his own breathing. Time seemed to stretch, each second dragging out like an eternity. He adjusted his grip on the crowbar, the metal cool and solid in his hands.
The knocking stopped.
Silence fell over the apartment like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. Vincent didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his entire body frozen in anticipation. His ears strained for any sound, any clue as to what might happen next.
The radio let out a sudden burst of static, sharp and jarring, before falling silent. The hissing stopped. The air felt impossibly still, as if the apartment itself were holding its breath.
Vincent’s grip on the crowbar tightened even further, his eyes darting to the door. The silence stretched on, each second a battle against the rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him.
And then, with a soft creak, the doorknob began to turn.
Vincent’s breath hitched as the doorknob jiggled, the faint metallic rattle cutting through the suffocating silence like a razor. His eyes stayed locked on the door as he reached out with one trembling hand, flicking the light switch off. The kitchen plunged into darkness, the faint glow from the phone now extinguished.
He shifted slightly, pressing himself further into the shadows of the kitchen, his body a tense coil of nerves. His grip on the crowbar tightened, the cold metal biting into his damp palms. The backpack pressed uncomfortably into his shoulder, its weight both reassuring and suffocating at once.
The radio went silent as he clicked it off, leaving the apartment shrouded in a thick, almost palpable quiet. Every sound now felt magnified, every tiny creak and rustle amplified in the absence of static. His breaths were shallow and deliberate, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled movements as he tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart.
The jiggling of the door continued, steady and insistent. Each metallic click sent a new wave of tension rippling through his body. He silently thanked himself for remembering to engage the deadbolt. Without it, whoever—or whatever—was outside would already be inside.
A voice drifted into the room, soft and low, just audible enough to send a chill racing down his spine. The words were indistinct, murmured and garbled as though spoken underwater or through layers of static. He strained to make them out, leaning slightly forward despite the pounding fear in his chest, but they remained elusive.
Then, the tone of the voice shifted. It wasn’t just speaking anymore—it was singing.
The lullaby started quietly, so faint that it could have been mistaken for the hum of distant traffic or the murmur of a passing breeze. But as the seconds ticked by, it grew louder, clearer. The melody was slow and deliberate, each note carefully placed, each word carrying a weight that made Vincent’s skin crawl.
“Close your eyes, little one,
Let the dark take hold.
Drift to sleep, soft and deep,
Feel the night unfold…”
Vincent’s knuckles turned white around the crowbar, his entire body rigid as the song seeped into the room like a creeping fog. The voice was sweet, almost melodic, the tone soothing and maternal. But the words—oh, the words—carried an undercurrent of something deeply unsettling.
“Rest your head, no need to fight,
The world will fade away.
Close your eyes, embrace the night,
Let dreams take you to stay…”
His breaths came quicker now, shallow and ragged as he fought against the hypnotic pull of the lullaby. It was wrong—everything about it was wrong. The softness of the voice, the gentle rise and fall of the melody, all wrapped around lyrics that felt like an invitation to surrender. To give up. To let go.
Vincent gritted his teeth, shaking his head as though the movement might physically dispel the song’s influence. He shifted his grip on the crowbar, the rough metal grounding him against the surreal horror unfolding on the other side of the door.
The singing grew louder, its cadence slow and deliberate, the words dripping with a kind of sickly-sweet malice that made his stomach churn. He pressed himself further into the corner of the kitchen, his eyes darting toward the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment.
“Close your eyes, little one,
The night will keep you warm.
Drift away, don’t be afraid,
You’re safe from any harm…”
The words hung in the air, each one twisting into his mind like a burrowing parasite. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, his exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him as the song wormed its way into his thoughts.
“Stay awake,” he whispered hoarsely, barely louder than a breath. “Don’t listen. Don’t—”
His voice cracked as the lullaby’s final line lingered in the stillness:
“Close your eyes, just fall asleep,
And let the shadows creep…”
The singing stopped abruptly, leaving the room in an oppressive silence. The only sound was the faint rustle of the backpack against his jacket as he shifted, his breaths sharp and uneven in the void the song had left behind.
The door jiggled again, more forcefully this time, the deadbolt rattling against the frame as if testing its strength. Vincent’s heart hammered against his ribs, his muscles tensing as he raised the crowbar slightly, ready to strike at the first sign of intrusion.
The voice returned, softer now, a low whisper that slipped beneath the door and into his ears like a tendril of smoke. The words were unintelligible again, but their intent was clear: coaxing, beckoning, pulling him toward the edge of surrender.
Vincent clenched his teeth, his hands shaking as he fought against the crushing weight of exhaustion. The lullaby had left its mark, a lingering haze in his mind that made every second feel like an eternity. His eyes burned with fatigue, his body screaming for rest, but he refused to give in.
The door stopped rattling. The whispering ceased. For a brief, fleeting moment, the silence returned.
And then the knocking started again. Slow. Quiet. Rhythmic.
Tap.
…
Tap.
…
Tap.
Vincent crouched lower, his muscles burning with the strain as he gripped the crowbar tighter. His gaze stayed fixed on the door, his mind racing as he tried to anticipate what would come next. The seconds dragged on, each one a battle against the overwhelming urge to collapse.
He pressed his back against the cabinets, the cold surface grounding him as he forced his breaths to slow. His mind latched onto a single thought, a desperate mantra that he repeated over and over in his head:
Vincent''s breathing slowed as he crouched lower into the shadows of the kitchen, his body aching from exhaustion and tension. The crowbar felt impossibly heavy in his hands, the weight of it an extension of the fatigue pulling at his limbs. The silence outside the door seemed to stretch infinitely, interrupted only by the faint echoes of his own uneven breaths.
His focus was razor-sharp, honed in on every creak, every shift of the air, every possibility of intrusion. He hadn’t moved for what felt like hours, his muscles locked into place, every fiber of his being attuned to the door. Yet now, in the suffocating stillness, something else crept into his awareness—a smell.
Sweet. Faint at first, barely noticeable over the metallic tang of fear clinging to him. But as seconds ticked by, it grew stronger, filling his nostrils with a cloying, chemical undertone. The scent was oddly familiar, though he couldn’t place it. It reminded him of a permanent marker left uncapped, its fumes lingering in the air. He frowned, his grip on the crowbar loosening slightly as his mind latched onto the distraction.
What is that?
The thought surfaced sluggishly, as if pushing through molasses. His head felt heavier now, his thoughts less sharp. He blinked, trying to refocus, but his eyelids seemed to resist, dragging closed for a fraction of a second longer each time.
The smell intensified, a sickly-sweet fog settling over him, wrapping itself around his senses like a suffocating blanket. His stomach churned as he tried to inhale through his mouth, but the taste of it coated his tongue, leaving a faint, bitter residue.
Focus. Just focus.
The mantra was harder to hold onto now, slipping through his grasp like sand. The air felt thick, syrupy, and each breath seemed to drag sluggishly into his lungs. His limbs tingled with a strange numbness, his body swaying slightly as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.
His thoughts splintered, fracturing into fragments that refused to piece together. The door. The lullaby. The smell. The crowbar. It all swirled in his mind, a chaotic storm that made it impossible to think straight. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hold onto one singular truth:
Stay awake. Stay alert.
But even that was slipping away. The sweet smell pressed against him, invading every corner of his mind, blurring the edges of his vision. His grip on the crowbar faltered, his fingers weak and unsteady.
Through the haze, he heard it: the faintest sound of keys jingling outside the door. The sound cut through the fog for a moment, sharp and deliberate. His pulse quickened, a jolt of adrenaline briefly clearing the fog clouding his thoughts.
The jiggling of the doorknob resumed, no longer tentative but purposeful, each rattle punctuated by the metallic clink of keys searching for their match. Vincent tried to push himself up, his muscles trembling with the effort. His vision swam, the edges of the room darkening as his head swayed.
He heard a voice. Faint. Distant. Familiar.
“Let’s not make this a problem,” the voice said. Calm, almost casual, as though the speaker were discussing the weather. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. Just want to avoid trouble for the building.”
Vincent’s eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat. Mr. Garrison. The landlord.
The realization pierced through the fog, but only briefly. The sickly-sweet smell pressed harder against him, like an unseen force smothering him into submission. His body felt leaden, his limbs refusing to respond to the desperate commands of his mind.
The door rattled one last time, then clicked. The sound of the deadbolt sliding open sent a shiver down Vincent’s spine. His knees buckled, and he slumped back against the cabinets, the crowbar slipping from his grasp with a dull clang.
The world tilted, his vision narrowing to a pinprick as the last traces of light dimmed. Somewhere in the haze, he heard the soft creak of the door swinging open, the lullaby’s melody faintly returning, intertwining with the landlord’s calm, measured steps.
Vincent’s eyes fluttered, his breath shallow as he caught one final glimpse of the phone screen beside him. The countdown glowed faintly in the darkness, its numbers counting down in steady, unrelenting succession.
3...
2...
1...
And then, nothing.