It started subtly.
A bank notification.
Monthly rent: paid.
But I hadn't sent it.
Hadn't even opened the app.
And when I checked the transaction history, it was there:
"TRANSFER: VOID COMPENSATION — $1,340.00"
Labelled as:"Service Rendered – Tenant 0B"
At first, I was relieved.
Who wouldn't be?
Free rent?
But the moment I closed the app, I heard a scream from the hallway.
Not loud.
Not human.
More like... static given voice.
It lasted three seconds.
Then silence.
I opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
But Room 4C's door—an apartment across from mine—was ajar.
Lights inside flickered.
I walked over and peeked in.
The place was gutted.
Not just furniture—identity.
No photos.
No clothes.
No signs anyone had lived there.
Except for one thing:
A single black envelope on the floor.
I picked it up.
No name. No address.
Inside: a receipt.
For a life.
Literally.
Void Compensation Payout:
Subject: Henry L. Tamez
Tenant: 0B (Proxy)
Status: Expired
Exchange Value: Market Rate
Service Type: "Silence for Survival"
Stamped at the bottom: "Paid in Full."
I staggered back into the hallway.
Heart racing.
The void compensation had a cost.
Someone dies.
I get rent.
It wasn't a gift.
It was a balance transfer.
Someone else's existence paying for mine.
Back inside my apartment, I stared at the scroll.
A new section had unfolded.
Small lines of fine ink, like veins across a leaf.
It read:
"You are now a proxy tenant."
"The building has chosen you to carry debt not yours, in exchange for shelter."
"Your soul accrues interest, paid through others."
Then below that:
"You may opt out... by surrendering your name."
I tried calling the number on the leasing contract.
Dead line.
Tried texting my landlord.
Message failed.
Checked the email.
The website no longer existed.
Just a 404 page with one sentence across it:
"You are being housed in good faith. Don't ask again."
Later that night, I watched the bank app again.
Midnight.
Another deposit hit my account.
This time:$5,000.
Labeled: "Backpay for Emotional Withholding"
I laughed.
Bitterly.
What does that even mean?
Was I profiting from not loving?
From avoiding grief?
Was someone else paying for my emotional choices?
Or my lack of them?
Then, my phone rang.
Blocked number.
I let it go to voicemail.
Message came through as text:
"Every dollar you receive is someone else's last breath.Sleep well, Proxy."
I threw the phone across the room.
It hit the mirror.
Cracked the glass.
My reflection didn't crack.
He just watched.
Smiling.
That night, I dreamed I was in a bank.
Line out the door.
But everyone in it looked like me.
Different versions.
Holding slips of paper.
Begging to pay off something I owed.
And when I reached the teller, she said:
"We're sorry.Your account is overpaid.Your guilt must wait."
The next morning, the doorman stopped me.
First time he'd spoken since Floor 13.
He handed me a red envelope.
Inside: a letter.
Typed.
"Dear Tenant 0B,
We've noticed your growing awareness of the Proxy System.
Please be reminded:You are not the first.You will not be the last.
Attempts to refund the value are forbidden.
Attempts to warn others will result in transference.
Attempts to leave will be treated as debt evasion.
Yours in quiet,
The Management."
I flipped the page over.
Handwritten this time:
"Don't open the freezer."
I ran home.
Straight to the freezer.
Opened it.
Inside: frozen meat.
Unlabeled.
Except one package.
Clear bag.
Inside: a human hand.
Holding another envelope.
I didn't open it.
I just stood there.
Staring.
I could feel the building vibrating faintly.
Like it was… purring.
Satisfied.
The mirror spoke again that night.
Same voice as before.
Mine, but not.
It said:
"You live on borrowed debt."
"Keep walking. Or start paying."
Then the crack spread wider across the glass.
Blood seeped from it.
But only inside the reflection.
I checked the bank account one more time before bed.
Balance:$66,666.66
I kid you not.
It blinked once.
Then reset to $0.00.
Replaced by:
"You have been paid in consequences."