Kenji stared at the screen.
DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR, MYERS.
The message remained there.
Six words.
Nothing else.
No caller ID.
No contact.
No explanation.
The knocking never came again.
The silence that followed felt worse.
Kenji looked toward the front door.
Every instinct told him not to open it.
Another part of him wanted answers.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
He typed a single question.
Who is Myers?
The message failed to send.
No error.
No warning.
It simply vanished.
Kenji frowned and tried again.
Same result.
The text disappeared before it left the phone.
A chill crawled up his spine.
For the first time that night, he considered leaving the apartment.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he was tired of waiting for things to happen to him.
He grabbed his jacket from the chair.
The moment he slipped it on, the phone vibrated.
Another message.
This one arrived from the same unknown number.
Good.
You're finally thinking.
Kenji's eyes narrowed.
Who are you?
This time the message sent.
Several seconds passed.
Then a reply appeared.
Someone who survived.
The words sat on the screen.
Kenji read them twice.
Three times.
Then another message arrived.
You have ten minutes.
After that, it will find you.
Kenji immediately looked toward the hallway.
Nothing.
The apartment remained still.
No movement.
No sounds.
No crimson silhouette.
No breathing.
Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something was standing just beyond sight.
Watching.
Waiting.
His phone vibrated again.
Leave now.
Use the back stairs.
Do not use the elevator.
Kenji grabbed his keys.
He didn't know why he trusted the messages.
Maybe he didn't.
Maybe he simply trusted them more than the thing smiling through reflections.
The hallway outside his apartment was empty.
Dim yellow lights buzzed overhead.
The elevator sat at the far end of the corridor.
Its doors were open.
Waiting.
Kenji stopped walking.
The elevator wasn't supposed to be there.
Not at this hour.
Not with its doors already open.
A faint metallic ding echoed through the hallway.
The doors remained open.
Inviting.
For some reason, that frightened him more than the silhouette ever had.
He turned away and headed toward the stairwell.
The heavy door groaned as he pushed through.
Cold air greeted him immediately.
The concrete stairs spiraled downward through darkness.
Kenji descended quickly.
One floor.
Two floors.
Three.
His footsteps echoed against the walls.
Halfway down the fourth flight, he heard another set of footsteps.
Above him.
He stopped.
The footsteps stopped too.
Silence.
Kenji looked upward.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
He continued walking.
The second set of footsteps followed.
Always matching his pace.
Never getting closer.
Never falling behind.
His grip tightened around the railing.
By the time he reached the ground floor, his pulse had begun to quicken.
The lobby stood empty.
The night clerk's desk sat abandoned.
A television played static in the corner.
The front entrance remained locked.
Kenji headed toward the rear exit.
The phone vibrated once more.
You're being watched.
Don't look behind you.
Naturally, Kenji looked behind him.
The lobby was empty.
Except for the security monitor.
Every camera displayed the building.
Hallways.
Stairwells.
Entrances.
Parking lot.
One screen showed the fourth-floor stairwell.
Kenji froze.
Someone stood there.
Motionless.
Tall.
Thin.
Head tilted slightly to one side.
The crimson silhouette.
It wasn't looking at the camera.
It was looking directly at him.
The monitor flickered.
Every screen went black.
Then one final message arrived.
Run.
For the first time since waking up in the morgue, Kenji didn't hesitate.
He ran.
And somewhere deep within the city, fifteen years after disappearing without a trace, a man looked up from an old newspaper and smiled.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"Another one came back."
The newspaper slipped from his hands.
On the front page was a faded photograph.
A hospital.
A morgue.
And a missing teenager.
The headline beneath it read:
THE BOY WHO WALKED OUT OF DEATH