Noah Kestrel lives in the apartment across the hall from yours.

He keeps odd hours. Rarely leaves. Sometimes the hallway smells faintly of ozone after he passes, like rain before a storm. The landlord claims Noah’s been there longer than anyone remembers.

People say strange things:

He doesn’t show up on public records.

He never receives mail.

The security cameras glitch when he walks by.

Noah insists he’s normal.

Mostly.

What no one else knows is that the apartment building sits on something old—something fractured. And Noah isn’t trapped there.

He’s staying on purpose.