Ethan woke with a start. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but here he was, slumped on the couch, his phone clutched loosely in his hand. The apartment was dark, the faint glow of a streetlamp outside casting long, slanted shadows across the room. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the uneasy, cobweb-like fog that clung to his thoughts. 

The silence felt heavier than usual, a suffocating blanket broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. As Ethan shifted, a chill ran through him. Cold air brushed against his skin, sharper than it should have been. Panic surged as he sat up abruptly, his eyes darting to the window. It was open. 

Ethan stared at it, his heart pounding. He never left the windows open—not at night, not ever. The thought gnawed at him, sending a fresh wave of unease through his body. He scrambled to his feet, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. His hands closed around a heavy metal lamp from the desk. Holding it tightly, he scanned the room, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner. 

 “Someone’s been here,” he whispered under his breath, the words trembling on his lips. His gaze returned to the window, searching for any sign of intrusion—a footprint on the sill, a disturbance in the dust. There was nothing. His grip on the lamp slackened slightly. “Someone’s been here, no… oh no. Fuck, no. No!” he said, his voice rising, the words spilling out in a panicked stream as his mind raced with possibilities. 

“Maybe I forgot,” he muttered, trying to convince himself. “Maybe I left it open.” 

He lowered the lamp, his shoulders sagging. Frustration bubbled up, mixing with the fear that still lingered in his chest. “This is so stupid,” he said aloud, his voice sharper now, as if scolding himself. “It’s all because of that damn misunderstanding.” 

But even as he tried to dismiss the thought, a prickling unease remained. Something didn’t feel right. The air in the apartment felt heavier, charged, as though it were holding onto a memory he couldn’t see. He closed the window with a sharp snap, locking it firmly, and placed the lamp back on the desk. Still, his eyes lingered on the shadows a moment longer. 

Morning brought little comfort. Ethan woke to the pale light of dawn creeping through the blinds. He swung his legs off the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. The chill from the night before had seeped into his bones. He shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee, seeking some refreshment, but his thoughts quickly spiraled. As the noise of the coffee machine hummed in the background, he started noticing everything: the rustling of the curtains, chairs slightly out of place, his lamp unplugged, the bedsheets crumpled, and the drawer left ajar, Ethan stared at the open drawer for half a minute, lost in thought. Then, snapping back to his senses, he muttered, "Fuck." Ethan moved toward the drawer, his hand shaking as he reached for it . He yanked it open, his heart sinking when he saw the notebook was gone. The space it had occupied was empty, the scattered papers undisturbed. His stomach twisted, his mind struggling to process the implications. 

He went numb, his body moving on instinct. Silently, he padded to the desk, each step deliberate, as if he were stalking prey. His fingers closed around the cold metal of the lamp once more, but this time, he hesitated. A lamp wasn’t enough—it wouldn’t do. He needed something more. Then it hit him: he had to get out of the building. Quickly. His eyes flicked to his jacket, slung over the back of a chair. He grabbed it, quickly slipping it on, the weight of his phone in the pocket reassuring. 

Ethan turned his attention to the door. He moved toward it, his breaths shallow, trying to make no noise. His hand hovered over the lock, and he twisted it slowly, careful not to let the mechanism click too loudly. The door creaked faintly as he opened it just enough to slip through. Once in the hallway, he locked it behind him, the metallic click sending a shiver up his spine. 

For a moment, he stood still, ears straining for any sound. The hallway was eerily quiet, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing in the distance. Then, with a burst of adrenaline, Ethan bolted. He ran down the stairs, his feet barely touching the steps as he stretched and skipped as many as he could. His heart pounded with each leap, his body fueled by an animalistic need to escape. 

The stairwell blurred around him as he descended, the pale light from the emergency fixtures casting strange shadows on the walls. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, the thud of his footsteps echoing like a drumbeat of desperation. All he could think about was getting out of the building—away from whatever or whoever was inside. 

As he reached the ground floor, the heavy door to the street loomed ahead, and he threw himself toward it, his hand outstretched. Freedom was just a few steps away.