Dropabyte Studio

At midnight, the city finally went quiet. Neon reflections drifted across the rain, and somewhere in the distance a train passed like a slow breath. That’s when the message arrived.

Do not open the door. Not because it is locked—because it is already open. The hallway is too quiet, as if it’s listening back. Your phone light flickers once… then twice. Somewhere beyond the threshold, a soft scrape drags across the floor—slowly, patiently—stopping only when you stop breathing.