The first thing Daniel noticed was the silence.
No city noise. No hum of the refrigerator. No distant murmur of neighbors through the walls.
Just silence.
And then—
The door was gone.
He had been reaching for it, ready to leave for work, when his fingers touched nothing.
His heart stuttered.
He turned in a slow circle.
The front door wasn't there.
No handle. No frame. Just a blank wall.
His stomach clenched. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe he had turned the wrong way—
But no.
The kitchen was where it should be. So was the couch, the coffee table, the old TV.
Just no door.
Daniel swallowed hard and moved to the window.
Or where the window should have been.
Another wall.
Cold panic crawled up his spine. He backed away, heart hammering.
He checked the bathroom.
No door.
Bedroom.
No door.
No way out.
His breath came faster, shallower. He grabbed his phone, fingers shaking, and hit call.
No service.
The Wi-Fi was gone too.
The world outside had vanished.
He spent the first few hours searching.
Every wall, every corner, every inch of space. He pounded his fists against the smooth plaster until they ached.
Nothing.
No cracks. No seams.
Just endless, empty rooms.
Because that was the worst part.
His apartment was changing.
There had only been five rooms before—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, and the tiny hall between them.
But now—
He walked through the bedroom and into the kitchen.
Then through the kitchen and into another living room.
Then through the living room and into another bathroom.
The same furniture. The same walls. The same dim light buzzing from above.
On and on.
Again and again.
Endless.
By the second day, he stopped counting.
Sleep was impossible.
The lights never turned off. The air never changed. The food in his fridge never ran out.
He would eat, sleep, wake up—
And the rooms would be different again.
By the fourth day, he started hearing things.
Soft shuffling behind him.
A breath that wasn't his.
Footsteps that stopped when he listened too hard.
He wasn't alone.
Something was here.
Something watching.
Waiting.
By the seventh day, the writing appeared.
Scratched into the wall above his bed.
DON'T LOOK FOR IT.
His blood ran cold.
He hadn't written that.
And he wasn't sure who had.
Or what.
By the tenth day, he saw it.
A shadow, just out of sight.
Moving between the endless rooms.
Following him.
Silent.
Patient.
He never saw its face.
He never wanted to.
But he could feel it getting closer.
Watching him sleep.
Waiting for him to break.
And one night, as he sat curled against the wall, breathing ragged, he realized something.
There had been a door.
It was just never meant to let him out.
Only to let something in.
And it already had.