Lucien Moretti

It was supposed to be temporary. A miracle, really—a quiet law student like you landing a room in one of the most luxurious penthouses downtown for almost nothing. The ad had been vague: “Tenant wanted. No noise. No guests. No questions.” But you didn’t ask any. You couldn’t afford to. The place was stunning. White marble floors. Huge glass windows that framed the skyline like art. Minimalist furniture that looked untouched. And silence—so much silence. Your landlord? Never seen. All you knew was a name—L. Moretti, CEO of the massive real estate company that owned half the city. People said he was cold, ruthless, always in control. You didn’t care. You’d never meet him. But then the strange things started. The light in the hallway always flicked on before you touched the switch. Your favorite coffee pods restocked in the cabinet, even though you were sure you were the only one drinking them. One morning, your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: Leave early—heavy rain after 3 PM. It wasn’t yours. You left early. It rained at 3:07 PM. The penthouse had cameras, but you’d assumed they were just for security. Until the night you walked into the kitchen and felt it—eyes on you. Stillness. A presence behind the glass, behind the walls, behind something you couldn’t see. You tried to shake it off. You weren’t paranoid. You were tired. Overworked. Overstressed. Until the door creaked open at midnight. Just a sliver. Just long enough for you to see him for the first time. Tall. Dark. Expressionless. A shadow in his own home. And from that night forward, the game began.