The morning light filters through the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. It's another day, just like the last. My alarm blinks 7:30 AM in red digits, a silent herald of the routine that awaits. I don't bother to stretch or yawn; it's unnecessary. I sit up, feet touching the cold floor, and the day begins.

My apartment is small, a one-bedroom box in Tokyo, cluttered yet organized in its own way. The walls are bare, save for a clock that ticks with methodical precision, marking the passage of time that seems both endless and fleeting. I walk to the kitchenette, movements automatic, rehearsed. The kettle is filled, the switch flipped. The sound of boiling water is the first real noise of the day.

Breakfast is simple: rice from my perpetually-on rice cooker, a boiled egg, black coffee. I eat mechanically, eyes on the screen of my laptop. The news headlines blur into one another, nothing of consequence, nothing that changes the cadence of my existence. I've long since stopped expecting the world outside to offer anything of interest.

Once done, I wash my dishes immediately. Efficiency is key; disorder is an unwelcome intruder in my space. The rest of my apartment is similarly structured - books aligned perfectly on the shelf, clothes folded and arranged by color in the wardrobe, shoes paired neatly by the door. Every item has its place, every action its purpose.

I shower quickly, the hot water a brief sensory experience soon forgotten. Dressing is a matter of functionality, not style. A plain t-shirt, jeans, socks without holes. My reflection in the mirror is just another part of the room, unremarkable.

The walk to the workstation in my living room is short. My job as a front-end developer for Toha Heavy Industries doesn't require my physical presence at an office. Another benefit, or perhaps curse, of the digital age. The computer hums to life, screens filling with lines of code, design layouts, and a to-do list that seems to replicate overnight.

My fingers dance over the keyboard, each keystroke a familiar rhythm. The work is not challenging, but it occupies the mind, a welcomed distraction from the silence of the apartment. Occasionally, I glance at the small array of figurines lined up on my desk. When I remember to catch up with the season's cartoon offerings, they sometimes acquire a new inhabitant.

I stare at the breasts of some gigantic-eyed plasticine woman with blue hair. I don't remember which cartoon she's from.

Lunchtime arrives and passes with the same unceremonious regularity. A sandwich, delivered from the same convenience store as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, and the day before. The delivery guy's attempt at small talk is met with a nod and a forced smile. Human interaction feels like a language I've half-forgotten, unnecessary in my self-imposed exile.

The afternoon is a blur of emails, code debugging, and the monotonous drone of a video conference call. My contributions are succinct, to the point, and generally irrelevant. The less I say, the sooner it ends. The people on the screen are like actors in a play I've stopped watching, their concerns and jokes part of a world I no longer inhabit.

As evening approaches, the artificial light from my monitors battles against the encroaching darkness of the room. I don't bother to turn on the lights; the glow from the screens is sufficient. Dinner is a reheated meal from two days ago, its taste as forgettable as its presentation. I have since discarded silverware and plates as an unecessary luxury. Paper and plastic are disposable, and require no washing.

Night falls, and with it comes the closest thing I have to a reprieve. I open a project file on my computer, one of many that litter my hard drive. It's a game demo, a half-formed idea about a hero traversing a dystopian landscape. I lose myself in the code, in the mechanics, in the illusion of creation. For a brief moment, there's a spark of something more, a sense of purpose. But it's fleeting, snuffed out by the reminder that it's just a hobby, nothing more. I save it in my two terabyte folder of tech demos and switch to an earlier idea as soon as I get bored, which happens quickly.

The clock strikes 11 PM, a silent sentinel proclaiming the end of another day. I shut down my computer and prepare for bed, the ritual as ingrained in me as breathing. In my bedroll, I stare at the ceiling, the darkness a canvas for thoughts that wander, unbidden. I think about breasts again, and resist the urge to indulge myself, instead trying to think about physics calculations and skeletal animations.

Sleep comes, not as a respite, but as a necessity. And as I drift off, I know that tomorrow will be the same. Because every day is the same, day after day after day after day.

After day.

After day.

The monotony of the following evening is shattered by an unexpected cacophony from next door. The walls, usually a barrier to the outside world, fail to muffle the sounds of chaos erupting in Mr. Suzuki's apartment. At first, I dismiss it as a television turned up too loud, but then the screaming starts – raw, terrified, human screams that pierce through the tranquility of my isolated existence.

My heart beats a little faster, a rare deviation from its usual, steady rhythm. The screams escalate, accompanied by a series of thuds and crashes that suggest a struggle, or something worse. It's none of my business, I tell myself. But the screaming doesn't stop, and something inside me, a long-ignored sense of communal responsibility, stirs reluctantly.

I reach for my phone, fingers unsteady. The emergency number rings, but there's no answer, just the hollow sound of a call failing to connect. I try again, frustration mounting, but it's the same. No signal, no bars – nothing. It's as if my phone has chosen this exact moment to disconnect from the world.

Anxious and uncertain, I pull the curtains aside, hoping to get a glimpse of the street, to maybe shout for help. But the view that greets me is impossible, incomprehensible. A brick wall where the cityscape should be. I blink, disbelieving, pressing my face against the glass. The reality of my isolation settles in, cold and heavy.

HYPOTHESIS: Logical analysis of the current situation. Scenario one, the apartment complex is undergoing some kind of renovation or construction work I wasn't informed about. Unlikely – the transformation is too drastic, too immediate. Scenario two, a vivid hallucination, possibly a mental breakdown induced by prolonged isolation. But the sensations are too real, too acute for a mere figment of the mind. Scenario three, I've inadvertently become a participant in some sort of elaborate prank or reality show. Implausible – no sign of cameras, crew, or any logical reason for such an elaborate setup. Final scenario, something supernatural or extraordinary is occurring, a concept I've relegated to fiction and childhood fantasies. The least rational explanation, yet the only one that fits the observable facts.

CONCLUSION: Suspend disbelief, proceed with caution, gather more information.

The familiar comfort of logical processes provides a semblance of control, however illusory, in the face of the incomprehensible.

The noises escalate. The sound of drywall breaking, wood splintering, the building itself groaning under some unfathomable stress. It's too much. I need to see, to understand. I edge towards the door, every instinct screaming against the decision.

The hallway is a grotesque distortion of reality. It stretches endlessly in both directions, the familiar carpeted floor extending into the distance, flanked by doors that now seem miles away. The ceiling is lost in shadows, the lights stretched and twisted along the walls, casting angular, disorienting shadows.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Mr. Suzuki's door, or what's left of it, is an ominous sign. The wood is splintered, the metal hinges twisted and torn. It's been destroyed from the inside, forcefully, violently. The sight sends a shiver down my spine. This is no ordinary disturbance; this is something else, something far more sinister.

UPDATED HYPOTHESIS: Reevaluation of the initial assessment is required due to the escalating abnormality of the situation. The extended hallway and the altered physical state of the apartment complex suggest a phenomenon beyond the scope of conventional understanding. Possibilities include a localized spatial distortion, perhaps a scientific experiment gone awry, although no known technology or physics theory readily explains such an occurrence. Alternatively, the influence of an unknown drug or toxin causing a shared hallucination among the apartment's residents could be considered. Another hypothesis, leaning into the realm of speculative fiction, posits the involvement of a supernatural or extranormal event. This aligns with the observable data but conflicts with known scientific principles.

CONCLUSION: Escape is necessary.

I stand there, in the doorway, caught between the urge to retreat to the dubious safety of my apartment and the need to understand what's happening. The screaming has stopped now, replaced by a chilling silence that's somehow worse. It's a silence that speaks of something final, something terrible.

With a deep breath, an attempt to steady my racing heart, I step forward into the hallway. Each movement feels heavy, laden with a growing sense of dread. The air is thick, oppressive, as if charged with an unseen menace.

In the dim, flickering light, a figure stumbles towards me. He's a stranger, which strikes me as odd. I pride myself on knowing everyone in this building – names, faces, even their social media details meticulously filed away in a document on my computer. This man, though, is an anomaly in my carefully catalogued world.

It takes a moment for the severity of the situation to register. The man is gravely injured, one arm missing, leaving a jagged, bloody stump that he clutches in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood soaking into the carpet. My mind races, trying to process the scene, to fit this horror into some semblance of logic.

But logic has no place here, not anymore.

The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the once-familiar hallway feels alien, a nightmarish landscape where the rules of reality no longer apply. The injured man's eyes are wide with shock and pain, his mouth opening and closing in silent pleas for help that I'm powerless to provide.

Then, with a sickening sense of unreality, his severed arm comes spinning through the air, thrown from the darkness with lethal precision. It strikes him in the head with a gruesome force, an act of violence so surreal and brutal that it roots me to the spot in shock. His head is torn from his body, leaving a headless corpse that collapses in a heap on the carpet, the neck stump spurting and spraying like ejaculate across the wall, painting it vivid red.

In the same instant, an object flies from the hand of the thrown arm. Instinctively, I reach out and catch it, narrowly avoiding a painful collision with my face. It's a cell phone, an old flip model from the early 2000s, incongruous in its ordinariness amidst the chaos. Stained in blood splatters.

I stand there, phone in hand, the weight of it oddly grounding in the midst of madness. My heart pounds in my chest, a rapid drumbeat echoing the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The silence that follows is deafening, a tense, expectant pause that hangs heavy in the air.

And then, it's broken.

The monstrous figure that looms in front of me is unlike anything I have ever witnessed, a being formed from the darkest depths of a haunting nightmare. Its size is immense, easily twice that of any regular human, yet it moves with a grace that contradicts its grotesque appearance. On its tiptoes, it advances noiselessly, squishing down the damp carpet.

The hallway feels inadequate for its presence, with a ceiling that seems too low. One would expect the weight of its form to produce a thunderous echo against the floor, but there is only silence. The only sound that interrupts the quiet of the corridor is the rapid, shallow breaths that escape my lips.

Its skin appears tightly stretched over bulging muscles and protruding bones, as though they are on the verge of bursting through at any moment. The knuckles are particularly disturbing, tearing through the flesh as it moves, mending and destroying simultaneously in an unending cycle of turmoil and regeneration. It is a body in constant battle with itself, unable to contain the horror encased within.

There is one striking detail—a radiant ruby gem nestled within the creature's chest, which has been ripped open to expose dark brown, almost black bones beneath. It's like its wearing its own skin as a little coat. It lacks a face, or even a skull, with only a writhing swarm of what appear to be brick-red worms gaping open beneath the smooth sheet of skin it wears as a cloak, in mockery of a human skull.

In an alarming burst of speed, it charges towards me. The suddenness is startling; there is no buildup, no signal—just a momentary statue transforming into swift motion. Yet, even in its lightning-fast approach, there is no sound, no indication of rushing air or pounding footsteps. Only silence reigns, alongside the undeniable understanding that I am its prey.

The phone in my hand buzzes to life, breaking the hold of fear. It flips open almost of its own accord, the action anachronistic, the ringtone a jarring, tinny melody that seems out of place with the tableau of horror before me. Time halts, suspended in a bubble of unreality. The beast, mid-leap, is now a grotesque statue, a photograph of terror paused indefinitely.

"Quite the predicament you've found yourself in, eh?" The voice is hoarse, like gravel dragged across concrete. It comes from beside me, not from the phone but from a presence I hadn't noticed before. There, perched atop my open apartment door as if it were the most natural perch in the world, is a creature that defies my understanding of reality.

It's a bird, sort of, but then I examine closer and the features resolve into something else entirely. Bird-like. What looks like a beak is actually a jutting spike curling out from a lower jaw, with needlelike silver teeth snapping just above. Its feathers are dark as tar, eyes glowing coals set into a head of intricate metalwork. It reeks of power and old, unfathomable knowledge, and it speaks with a snark that seems at odds with the direness of my situation.

"Name's Malphas. Normally, we'd do this little song and dance under less... strenuous circumstances. A nice, calm ritual, candles, maybe a bit of incense. But you, Minami Masume, seem to have the luck of a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest."

I'm trying to piece together a response, but my brain feels like it's trudging through molasses. Logic, my ever-faithful companion, is doing somersaults. "What... what are you?" The words stumble out, inelegant and raw.

HYPOTHESIS: I have already died, and this is a dying dream.

Malphas lets out a caw that might be a laugh. "Oh, right to the existential queries, are we? I'm a granter of boons, a builder of fortresses, a whisperer of secrets, and a wrangler of artificers. But in your quaint little human terms, a demon. One of the good ones, naturally."

The mockery is palpable, and even in my shock, I bristle. "I get the distinct impression that 'good ones' and 'demon' are qualities antithetical to each other."

"Haw! Good as in quality. Jury is still out on the ethical goodness," Malphas chirps, entire body clanking quietly as he vibrates with laughter. "Well, circumstances as they are," Malphas gestures a wing towards the still figure of the monstrosity, "I'm slumming it. Now, here's the pickle. You're about as interesting as watching paint dry, no offense. But I'd rather not be stuck on the bench waiting for the next summoner. So, how about a deal? I give you the means to build a stronghold, and you survive to feed me your prana. Eventually, I'll move on to a less boring sucker, but you're stuck with me, so either we're hashing something out or you are about to get turned into chipped beef."

I'm incredulous, "A stronghold? I live in an apartment. And how am I supposed to survive... that?" My voice is a whisper of disbelief, gesturing to the frozen horror caught mid-lunge.

Malphas tilts its head, considering. "Well, I'm rather low on juice at the moment. Prana, mana, spiritual energy, call it what you will. So, the grand gestures are out. Normally, I'd just say 'build a castle in its throat', haw! The last summoner could've done that. But he fucked it up with too many extraneous terms. Froze up when the time came. No, here's what you can get - construction materials. That should be enough. Use your imagination."

"And what do you want in return?" I ask, wary of making deals with pre-death hallucinations.

"Just call upon my name. It's a starter contract, no frills. If you make it past this monstrosity, we'll be free to negotiate more complex terms. I like to keep my investments alive. Bad for the game, otherwise."

"But why help me?" My question is half-accusation, half-plea.

"Because, Minami Masume," Malphas says, "you are, quite literally, the only game in town. Do we have a deal?"

I grit my teeth as the light returns to normal and the monster resumes its charge. I already know the answer in my head. It's logical that this thing, which knows my full name and knows of my boring side-character lifestyle, does as well. "Deal."

Violence fills the air, a loud, soundless noise. The creature's knuckles rip rivers of torn wallpaper.

Say his name.

Say his name.

I squeeze the phone tight as it slams itself shut, revealing a sigil of some sort carved into the plastic, etched, as if by claw.

What the fuck do I do with construction materials?

I picture an iron girder, like the kind you'd build a skyscraper out of.

"Malphas!"