Chapter 3

Extreme terror becomes numbness.

I was stuck in that hole in the wall, half my body on one side, half on the other. Ahead was the lifeless plastic mannequin. Behind was the killer homeless man.

That nylon rope swayed in the air like a venomous snake.

I jerked myself back, ignoring the sharp drywall edges tearing the skin at my waist. The pain brought some clarity.

I scrambled back to the corner of my room, clutching that fruit knife with a death grip.

The hand withdrew. But that didn't mean he'd given up. He was enjoying this. Just like a cat always plays with a mouse before eating it. He knew I couldn't escape.

The adjacent room had a mannequin. What about the others?

Were all those "early-rising, late-returning, high-quality" roommates the agent mentioned just these things? Creating the illusion of a fully-rented apartment to trick girls like me—fresh graduates, broke and scared of living alone—into this trap.

This was basically an elaborately designed hunting ground.

I had to verify this. Even if verification wouldn't save me, I didn't want to die in ignorance.

I burst out of my room.

The living room was still deathly silent. I didn't care anymore. I ran straight to Room C's door, the closest one, and twisted the handle hard.

Locked.

I kicked it. These cheap wooden doors couldn't withstand much abuse. After a few kicks, the lock area splintered.

I rammed through and charged in.

By my phone's flashlight, I saw the same scene. An empty room. One bed. One "man" sitting in a chair. Wearing a suit, glasses perched on his nose, that plastic face frozen in an eternal smile.

A male mannequin.

Room D.

The door wasn't locked. I pushed it open. This one was even more absurd. Two "people" lay in bed together, one male and one female, covered with blankets, two plastic heads poking out.

These were the so-called "couple tenants"? All fake.

In this entire four-bedroom apartment, besides me, there wasn't a second living person.

No, there was one more. Overhead.

I stood in the center of the living room, holding up my phone's flashlight, the beam sweeping across those tightly closed bedroom doors. This place was like some grotesque wax museum.

In that moment, I didn't feel scared anymore—just disgusted. Disgusted enough to vomit. They'd treated people like complete idiots. For a few hundred bucks in monthly rent, they'd created this tomb of the living dead.

A drop of liquid fell on the floor in front of me.

I looked down. It was a drop of murky yellow fluid, reeking of urine.

Slowly, I raised my head.

The flashlight beam illuminated the living room ceiling. That access panel had been completely removed at some point. A skull-like withered head was hanging upside down there. Matted hair dangling like weeds, those cloudy yellow eyes squinting in the bright light.

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of half-rotten black teeth. In his hand was a water bottle, dripping urine downward.

He was mocking me. Marking his territory.

This was the "roommate" who'd been living above my head all along. Every night I'd heard those sounds, thinking they were rats. They were rats, all right. One giant human-sized rat.

"Come down here!"

I screamed at him, my voice so hoarse it scared even me.

"If you've got guts, come down! What kind of man hides up there!"

I raised the fruit knife, waving it at him.

That withered face twitched, apparently surprised I'd challenge him.

He retreated. Then came urgent crawling sounds. Heading toward my room.

I knew what he was going to do. That ventilation window. His favorite hunting entrance.

I couldn't go back to my room. But I had to use that room.

My mind raced, adrenaline surging.

If he liked playing dirty, I'd play along to the end.

I rushed to the kitchen. No gas here, just an old-style electric hotplate. But I remembered—in the corner of the kitchen was a bucket of paint thinner left over from previous renovations. Highly flammable.

I grabbed the metal bucket and shook it. Still half full. Enough.

I hauled the bucket back to my room.

The ventilation window had already been pushed open, that skeletal hand about to reach down. Seeing me rush in, the movement paused. Probably wondering why this prey dared walk into the trap.

I let out a cold laugh, unscrewed the bucket lid, and aimed at the bed beneath the ventilation window and the wall directly below it, splashing it everywhere. The acrid chemical smell instantly filled the cramped space.

"You want to come down? Then come down!"

I pulled out a lighter. Click. The flame sparked to life.

The eyes behind that ventilation window widened suddenly. The animal's instinctive fear of fire.

He tried to retreat. But I didn't give him the chance.

I tossed the lighter onto the thinner-soaked sheets.

The flames erupted instantly, like a fire dragon roaring toward the ceiling. That ventilation window was a wind tunnel—the flames rushed straight up with the airflow.

A piercing shriek erupted from the ceiling crawlspace. That sound made your scalp crawl, like a pig being slaughtered.

I stepped back, watching flames lick at the edges of the ventilation window.

But I knew this wasn't enough. This fire wouldn't kill him—at most it would burn him. And if this old building really caught fire, I'd die too. I didn't want mutual destruction. I wanted to force him down. Force him out of his dark fortress, down to ground level, where we could fight to the death.

Sure enough, overhead came frantic crashing and rolling sounds. The crawlspace filled with smoke and fire—he couldn't stay.

A massive crash from the hallway. The access panel had been completely kicked out.

A flaming black mass tumbled down from above, hitting the floor hard.

He'd landed.

It was a scrawny man, barely five feet tall, draped in tattered quilting, hair still smoking. He screamed and rolled on the floor, beating at the flames on his body.

I gripped the fruit knife tightly and strode out of my room.

Now he was no longer that superior hunter. Just a cornered dog.

Strike while the enemy's down—finish him off.

I rushed over and stabbed down hard at his thigh.

The sound of blade entering flesh.

He screamed again, those cloudy eyes finally showing fear. He tried to get up, but I kicked him hard in that revolting face.

"This is for the me you strangled to death!"

I yanked out the knife. Blood sprayed everywhere.

I wanted to stab again.

But just then, keys turning sounded at the front door.

Click.

The door opened.

The landlord Mike's bulky figure appeared in the doorway. He held a baseball bat, panting heavily—clearly he'd rushed up after hearing the commotion.

But when he saw the scene before him, he froze. I froze too.

I'd expected him to come, but not with a weapon in hand. What I hadn't expected was that when he saw the homeless man covered in blood on the floor, his eyes showed no surprise—only... fury. The fury of someone whose property had been damaged.

"Damn it, useless piece of trash!"

He cursed, turned around to close the door, and deadbolted it again.

He turned back around. Those little eyes that usually squinted to slits were now wide open, gleaming with murderous intent.

"Girl, you're pretty vicious, aren't you?"

He hefted the baseball bat, advancing toward me step by step.

"This idiot may be brain-dead, but at least he's been watching this place for me for six months, saving me plenty of trouble. You crippled him—how am I supposed to do business now?"

His tone was casual, like he was discussing some minor property damage.

But I understood.

This homeless man wasn't some illegal squatter. He was a dog the agent kept. Specifically to frighten tenants, drive away those who wanted their deposits back, or even... dispose of troublesome people.

I gripped the still-dripping knife, backing away step by step.

Wolf ahead, tiger behind. And this tiger was bigger, meaner, and harder to handle than that wolf.

"Don't come closer! I called the police!" I shouted, raising the knife.

"Police?" Mike sneered. "I installed a signal jammer in this dump. Who could you possibly call?"

No wonder the call wouldn't go through.

"Wasn't planning to touch you, but you had to make trouble."

The fat on Mike's face quivered as he showed a savage grin.

"Since you know everything now, might as well stay and keep them company. I'm sick of these mannequins anyway—perfect time to replace one with the real thing."

He swung the baseball bat viciously at my head.