The gym was empty again.
Not that it was surprising. Since moving into the complex, every common area—the lounge, the laundry room, even the supposedly bustling game hub—had been eerily deserted. I remembered the leasing agent's chipper voice during our conversation over the phone: "We have thirty tenants in total. A full house. You'll love the community."
Community? I snorted under my breath as I stepped farther into the gym, letting the heavy glass door fall shut behind me. Community was a myth here.
In the 6 days I'd lived in this complex, I had only met seven people. Seven, out of thirty. The others? Ghosts. Shadows.
Names I never heard, footsteps I never traced. Sometimes I wondered if the other twenty-three ever existed—or if they were just placeholders on a spreadsheet.
Maybe Father John lied, I thought, dropping my gym bag to the floor. Wouldn't be the first time someone sold a lie wrapped in smiles.
As if I had conjured him from the thought alone, a voice boomed behind me.
"Sinclair."
I flinched and turned. There he was—Father John.
His face was hard, colder than I'd ever seen it. The usual calm reverence he wore like a second skin was gone, replaced by something unreadable. Disappointment? Disgust? I couldn't tell.
"I saw you last night," he said without greeting. "Second floor. Apartment 204."
My mouth went dry. I had hoped no one saw me sneaking in. But of course, it had to be him.
"I—" I started, but he raised a hand sharply.
"You were evading space," he said flatly. "That is against complex regulations."
"I know," I replied, voice low. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
"Doesn't matter." His words cut through mine like knives. "You'll have to vacate the premises. Immediately. Find yourself a new apartment elsewhere." My breath hitched.
Wait—what?
He was serious.
Iopenedmymouth, butnothingcameout. Mybrainscrambled to find the right words, the right tone, something to reason with him. But before I could, he stepped closer.
Real close.
His eyes bored into mine, and his voice dipped low and dangerous. Something foreign.
"I've always known you'd be trouble," he whispered. "The moment I saw your profile and read that you were an orphan." Then he turned and walked away.
No more words.
No space for defense.
No chance to respond.
I stood there frozen, his words echoing in my skull.
Orphan. He had used it like a slur. A shame. A curse.
I had expected that kind of insult from strangers on the street. From neighbors who turned away too quickly. From judgmental glances and pity-stained conversations. But not from him. Not from Father John.
I had respected him—even if only mildly, even if only because he carried himself like a man of reason. I respected him for the calm. For the structure. For being someone who wasn't cruel.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I left the gym without another word.
Back in my apartment, I slammed the door shut behind me. The silence inside felt deafening, pressing against my chest like a heavy weight.
My eyes scanned the room blindly. My chest was tight with heat, with shame, with fury I didn't know where to put.
Then my hand grabbed the remote off the table.
Without thinking, I flung it—hard—at the flat-screen.
CRACK.
The screen splintered with a sharp hiss. A long spiderweb fracture bloomed across the glass.
Perfect.
I sat down on the couch, heart pounding in my ears. My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Oliver.
His name flashed across the screen like a lifeline and a curse all at once.
I answered.
"Hey," he said, voice low. "They held the funeral today. For Christopher."
I didn't speak. My throat was still tight.
"I just got back," he continued. "Ran into Saavni while I was out. She, uh… she asked to meet you."
I blinked. "What?"
"She asked to see you. I gave her your number. Just thought
I'd give you a heads-up."
I sighed, scrubbing a hand down my face. "Thanks."
Fifteen minutes later, Saavni sent a message.
SAAVNI: Hello, this is Saavni from DailyDaily. Oliver told me you reside in Shellville? I just moved in there not quite long ago. Can we meet? At the restaurant in the estate. I'll be there in thirty.
I stared at the text for a moment before rising, grabbing my coat and keys.
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