The seventh night of the blackout settled over Graybridge like a held breath, thick and waiting to burst. From my apartment window on the eighth floor, the city looked half-drowned under layers of fog creeping in from the coast. No lights. No sirens. No broadcasts. Just an eerie, unnatural quiet—like the world itself had paused. I hadn’t slept in two days. My nerves were shot, my thoughts fraying at the edges, every sound amplifying in the hollow of my skull. But tonight, a new sound stirred beyond the wall to my right. A wet, dragging whisper. Not pipes. Not wind. Something… alive. I froze mid-step, my hand hovering inches from my phone. For a long moment, I only listened—heart hammering, breath shallow. The noise came again, a soft ripple like something slick sliding over the floor. I swallowed hard. “Not now,” I muttered. “Please, not tonight.” The unit next door had always been quiet. Too quiet. My neighbor barely came out, barely spoke, barely existed. I’d only seen him twice since I moved in: a tall, pale boy around my age, hair black as stormwater and eyes an unnatural shade of green. He had looked at me like he was trying to remember how human expressions worked. And then he vanished behind his door. Now, something in his apartment was moving. Another wet, coiling sound crawled across the wall. My fingers trembled. I grabbed my backpack—already half-packed with canned food and a