Nathan’s hand was still resting on the locked door’s handle, his scalp prickling as he processed the faint, mocking laugh he’d just heard from the other side. The realization jolted him, followed immediately by a stream of questions he couldn’t shake.

Who was in there? How long had they been hiding? Had they slipped in while he slept, or had they been there since he’d first arrived two months ago?

If it was the latter, they’d been locked up in this second-floor room the entire time he’d been here. Was there some hidden entrance inside? Or maybe…

Was that laughter even human?

Wild theories crowded his mind, but his expression settled into an eerie calm. Maybe it was the encounter with that frog-like creature that had changed something within him, or maybe it was the effect of having “died” and somehow come back. Either way, his nerves felt strangely dulled.

The laughter didn’t sound overtly menacing, but it was undeniably strange. And yet, after the initial wave of unease, he noticed his fear had vanished, replaced only by a strong, almost relentless curiosity.

He needed to know what, or who, was inside that room.

He needed to understand what secrets lay within this old house—the only place he’d found where he could be safe.

This was his sanctuary, his one refuge in this massive, surreal city. And there couldn’t be anything unsafe in his safehouse.

Moving closer, he pressed his ear against the door, straining to listen. He thought he could hear faint laughter, though it might’ve been nothing more than a stray draft passing through the hall.

Nathan raised his hand and knocked.

“I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Nothing happened. But the laughter faded.

Without a word, Nathan turned and walked to the storage room down the hall, where he grabbed an ax.

Returning to the locked door, he raised the ax high and brought it down with all his strength.

The blade struck the door’s thin wood with a harsh, metallic clang, sparks flying from the impact, but not even a dent was left on the door’s surface.

The laughter started up again, louder this time, a taunting mockery that seemed to grow clearer with each failed strike. But Nathan remained focused, lifting the ax again, his movements methodical and calm, like he was carrying out a task that demanded patience and precision. He struck again. And again.

He knew the door wouldn’t open, not with an electric drill, a saw, or even this ax. But for the past two months, he’d tried nearly every day to get through this door, experimenting with every tool he had. Now, the strange laughter only fueled his determination to finally break in.

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And with each strike that failed to make a mark, his resolve grew sharper. His blows grew stronger, driven by sheer frustration. He found his mind wandering to absurd comparisons, like that old fable about Sisyphus endlessly pushing a boulder. He even imagined a gathering of mythical onlookers around him, applauding his efforts, although he had no idea why.

The laughter grew louder and closer, as if whoever was behind the door was just inches away, fully aware of its unyielding strength and finding amusement in his futile struggle.

Then, unexpectedly, a second voice joined in, tense and annoyed. “Can you quit laughing? If he actually breaks in here, I’m the first one he’ll swing at!”

The laughter stopped.

Nathan froze, ax raised mid-swing, and blinked in surprise. Just as he did, a sharp pain jolted through his back.

With a loud pop, the ax slipped from his grip, landing off-target and embedding in the floorboards instead.

The door emitted a strange, delicate ring, totally different from the harsh sounds of his previous strikes. Nathan gritted his teeth, clutching his back in sudden agony.

He’d pulled something, and it hurt like hell.

Gritting his teeth, he moved closer to the door, taking a few steadying breaths before focusing on the spot where his ax had last struck.

He saw something unusual—a faint, suspended flash, hovering just an inch or two from the door’s surface, near the hinge. It looked like a spark from the impact, frozen in the air as if time had paused mid-swing.

Curious, he reached out.

From behind the door came a startled yelp. “Hey—!”

Nathan’s eyes snapped open, the living room lights glaring above him. He was lying on the couch, his back stiff and sore. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, and he could see he’d only been asleep for forty minutes.

He stared at the ceiling, letting his muddled memories slowly come back into focus.

He’d fallen asleep… Had it all been just a dream?

Nathan sat up slowly, but something felt off.

The dream had been too vivid, too detailed. He could still feel the ax’s weight, remember the sensation of the handle in his grip, the memory of those frozen sparks. He remembered…

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his back.

“Ah—damn…” he muttered, clutching his back. The bad twist, his sudden movements, and the stiffness from the couch made him almost wish that frog had finished him off; it would’ve hurt less.

His mind was racing. No ordinary dream could leave his back hurting. Something strange had definitely breached his “safe” space.

Bracing himself, Nathan carefully straightened, pushing the pain aside, and headed upstairs.

He grabbed the baton—just in case—and went back to the storage room to retrieve the ax from his “dream.” The handle felt just as real, as if it had been warmed by his grip.

He approached the locked door on the second floor. It was just as it had always been: closed, untouched. No marks from his dream appeared on the door.

Everything was silent on the other side, as if nothing had ever happened.

But he remembered exactly where he’d hit it.

Attaching the baton to his belt, Nathan switched the ax to his left hand and reached out to the spot he’d seen in his dream. He remembered it clearly—near the hinge, where he’d glimpsed something faint and hazy…

His fingers brushed something strange—a handle, invisible to the naked eye.

He knew this door inside and out. He’d checked every inch of it the first day he’d found it locked. He was sure there hadn’t been any hidden “handle.”

Why was it there now? Had seeing it in the dream made it real? Or had he broken through some kind of illusion?

Nathan’s mind raced through every story, show, and movie he’d ever seen, quickly running through possible explanations. But his hand was steady as he gripped the invisible handle and gave it a light twist.

The “unbreakable” door opened as if it had never been locked, swinging inward.

It was an empty room. Peering through the widening gap, Nathan saw only bare walls and floor. The faint light from the hallway fell into the room, illuminating its corners. As he cautiously opened the door wider, he saw nothing—no one waiting inside, no mocking voice.

Holding the ax tightly, he surveyed the room, but it was completely bare. Not even a bed or a chair in sight.

Only the faint, patchy glow of moonlight slipping through worn-out curtains, casting a dim light across the floor.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Nathan noticed something.

There *was* something in the room. Directly opposite the door, a single painting hung on the wall.

It was framed in an ornate, old-fashioned style, with intricate vines and floral patterns curling around the edges. The painting itself showed a plush armchair resting on a deep red carpet, empty.

No cursed spirit with a mocking laugh awaited him from within the painting.

Nathan frowned, studying the artwork carefully.

But it was too dim.

Keeping his eyes on it, he groped for the light switch by the doorframe and flicked it on.

In the bright light, every detail of the painting became clearer.

He approached slowly, scrutinizing it. And then, in one of the bottom corners, he saw something faint—a tiny detail almost hidden in the shadows: the edge of a skirt.

“…Are you in there?”

“Of course not!” came a hasty voice from within the painting.