The silence of the tenth floor of Tenebris Wharf after Mrs. Everard's hysterical door slam felt even more oppressive. Simon stood leaning against the cold wall opposite door 27, his gaze fixed on that ominous gap at the bottom. *Greenish eyes. Glowing. Lying in the dust behind the door.* The image was seared into his consciousness, overriding even his own recent terror. This was undeniable. Tangible through another person's testimony.
The chill of the fabric scrap in his pocket burned with icy reproach and… a key. *It* was here. Physically? Spiritually? Didn't matter. It could manifest. It *was watching*. And Mrs. Everard, with her impressionability, wasn't a crazy old lady, but an unwitting witness to the truth.
Simon straightened up, swallowing a lump of rage and excitement. Fear had retreated, making room for cold, predatory resolve. He looked around. The corridor was empty. Door 28 – firmly shut, the muffled drone of a TV audible behind it. Hargreave was ignoring the commotion or deliberately staying inside. *Charlatan.* The word stung again, but now it only spurred him on.
"Mr. Olsen," Simon spoke loudly but evenly, addressing the ceiling where he assumed security cameras or microphones might be hidden. "I need information. Urgently."
After a few seconds, the manager's anxious voice came from a speaker near the elevator: "Mr. Vale? What… what happened? Are you alright? I heard screams…"
"Fine," Simon lied. "But the situation is developing. I need the file on the previous tenant of apartment 27. Who lived there before it was vacant? As fast as possible."
"Previous…" Olsen hesitated. "Mr. Vale, that's confidential information…"
"Arthur," Simon switched sharply to his first name, imbuing it with the full weight of the situation. "There is *something* behind that door. And that *something* was just watching Mrs. Everard through the gap. With eyes. Glowing ones. If you want to preserve this elite hellhole and your job, find that data. *Now*. I'm waiting near apartment 28."
He didn't wait for a reply. Approaching Hargreave's door, he knocked firmly, insistently, not as a supplicant but as a man demanding answers. The TV behind the door went silent. No answer. Simon knocked again, louder.
The door swung open. Hargreave stood on the threshold, his face crimson with fresh anger. "You! Again! I told you…"
"Who lived in apartment 27 before it was empty?" Simon cut him off, looking him straight in the eye. His voice was low, icy, stripped of all politeness. His gaze was like a steel blade.
Hargreave was taken aback for a second. "What? What business is it of yours…"
"Name," Simon snapped. "Or description. Anything. It's critical. Now."
"Piss off!" Hargreave growled, trying to slam the door. But Simon jammed his palm against the frame.
"Eyes, Mr. Hargreave," Simon hissed, leaning slightly closer. "Big, glowing, greenish eyes. In the gap under door twenty-seven. Mrs. Everard just saw them. She's not hysterical. *It* is there. And it's watching. Everyone. You too." He saw Hargreave's pupils constrict, a shadow of doubt mixed with fear flickering across his face. "Who. Lived. There?"
Hargreave took a step back, his confidence shaken. He threw a quick, nervous glance towards the cursed door. "I… I don't know the name. Some… eccentric. Old guy. Grey-haired, walked hunched over. Always in dark clothes. Rarely came out. Never said hello. Lived there… two years, maybe? Then just… vanished. And the apartment's been empty."
"When did he vanish?" Simon pressed.
"Four? Five months ago?" Hargreave shrugged, looking less at Simon now and more down the empty corridor. "Olsen mumbled something about terminating the lease for non-payment… or something like that. Nobody missed him." He looked back at Simon, and his eyes now held not contempt, but anxiety. "Those… eyes… are you serious?"
But Simon was already pulling back. "Thank you, Mr. Hargreave. Lock your door. And… be careful."
He turned away, leaving Hargreave bewildered on the threshold. The information was sparse but valuable: an elderly, reclusive man. Vanished. Non-payment? Or something more sinister?
The elevator on the floor softly *dinged*. The doors slid open, and a breathless Olsen rushed out, clutching a thin cardboard folder.
"Mr. Vale!" He ran up, face ashen, breath ragged. "Here… here's what I found. The file on the previous tenant. Alexis Varnava. Rented apartment 27 for two years and three months. Last payment… four and a half months ago. We sent notices, no reply. After two months, as per the lease, access was deactivated, belongings… few personal items… packed and sent to temporary storage. The apartment was cleaned and put up for sale."
Simon took the folder. Inside – a standard lease agreement, passport copies (an elderly man with sunken cheeks and a sharp, unfriendly gaze from deep-set eyes – Alex Varnava), a few payment receipts… and the last missing person report, filed by… no, not Olsen. *A neighbor. Mrs. Everard.*
He looked up at the manager. "Mrs. Everard filed the missing person report?"
Olsen nodded, rubbing his temples. "Yes. She said she hadn't seen him for several weeks, mail was piling up at his door… She was worried. The police checked… formally. Found nothing. No signs of departure, no… nothing. Vanished into thin air."
Simon flipped through the documents. Nothing unusual. Until the last page. And there… clipped on haphazardly, lay a **photograph**. Not official. More like a candid shot, possibly taken by a security camera in the lobby or by the elevator. It showed Alex Varnava in his dark coat, hunched, stepping out of the elevator. In his hands, he carried a **small box made of dark, roughly finished wood**. On the lid of the box, despite the poor quality of the image, a **strange symbol** was visible – an interweaving of angular lines, resembling a broken grid or a locked cage. The symbol looked burned or hand-carved.
Simon felt as if he'd been electrocuted. His hand jerked towards his jacket's inner pocket, towards the small bag. He didn't pull it out, but his fingers clenched the plastic through the fabric, feeling the shape of the scrap. His mind raced to compare: *Pattern on the fabric? Interlacing threads?* He hadn't seen the scrap in good light long enough to memorize details, but… the *feeling* was similar. That same sense of complex, alien geometry.
"What's this?" he jabbed his finger at the box in the photo, his voice hoarse.
Olsen leaned in, squinting. "The box? Don't know. He sometimes brought strange things in. Old books, some… figurines. We don't search the tenants, Mr. Vale."
"His belongings? In storage? Can they be examined?"
"Theoretically… yes," Olsen winced. "But it will take time. Need permission from the owner, storage location coordinates…"
At that moment, the door to apartment 26 opened quietly on the chain. Mrs. Everard stood on the threshold. She was deathly pale but looked slightly more composed. In her hand, she held a **small, battered notebook** with a leather cover.
"Mr. Vale…" her voice was a voiceless whisper. She pushed her hand with the notebook through the gap. "I… I found this. At my place. When Mr. Varnava… vanished, his mail piled up. One day the postman made a mistake… put his magazine in with mine. And inside… as a bookmark was this little book. I meant to return it, but he disappeared… and then… I forgot. Until you asked…"
Simon carefully took the notebook. It was light, the binding cracked. "Thank you, Mrs. Everard. Thank you so much."
She nodded, her eyes filling with fear again. "Is it… is it still there?" she nodded towards door 27.
"Don't know," Simon answered honestly. "But I'll find out."
She nodded again and silently closed the door.
Simon opened the notebook. The pages were yellowed, covered in sparse, angular handwriting. Not a diary. More like notes. Calculations. Diagrams. And… **symbols**. Those very same angular, grid-like symbols, like the one on the box in the photo! They appeared in the margins, as headings, carefully drawn. And on one of the last pages… Simon froze. There was a **small dried flower**, a strange blue-black hue he'd never seen before. And next to it – a schematic drawing of… an **eye**. Unnaturally large. With slanted, almond-shaped pupils. And a caption: *"The Threshold Guardian. It sleeps. Do not disturb."*
The chill in Simon's pocket turned into an icy burn. He raised his eyes and looked at the door of apartment 27. Silence. But now it was different. Not emptiness, but **bated breath**. Alex Varnava hadn't just vanished. He had done something. Something involving that box, those symbols.
"Olsen," Simon closed the notebook, his voice quiet and dangerous. "Varnava's belongings. In storage. I need access. Tomorrow morning. Find a way."
Before the manager could respond, a sharp, piercing sound tore through the floor's silence. **The fire alarm!** An ear-splitting, continuous wail filled the corridor, red lights flashing under the ceiling.
"What?!" Olsen cried out, clutching his head. "Again?! But the systems…"
Simon wasn't listening. His gaze was locked on the door of apartment 27. In the gap under the door, where before there had been only darkness, now **a faint, greenish light flickered**. Like two tiny embers. Staring straight at him.
It wasn't asleep. And the alarm didn't disturb it. It was watching. And waiting.