Chapter 1: Rule 21: The Floor That Isn't There

Chapter 1: Rule 21: The Floor That Isn't There

The city air was a cocktail of damp pavement, exhaust fumes, and the kind of bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the November wind. For three days, that wind had been Eden’s only constant companion, whipping her unkempt dark hair across her face as she drifted from one dead-end viewing to another. Each one was a new flavour of disappointment: rooms with black mould creeping up the walls like predatory vines, landlords whose eyes lingered too long, and prices that were a cruel joke for a 23-year-old with less than two hundred dollars to her name.

She was running on the dregs of her savings and the bitter fuel of adrenaline. Fleeing wasn't just about leaving a place; it was about outrunning the ghost of a person she had been, the one whose voice still echoed in her head, telling her she was worthless, that she’d never make it on her own. He was wrong. He had to be.

Tucked away on a forgotten side street, pinned to a corkboard outside a grimy laundromat, she found it. A simple, cream-coloured flyer, starkly different from the screaming neon and faded band posters around it.

AZURE ARCH APARTMENTS. A new beginning for those serious about change. Furnished singles. All utilities included. Inquire within.

There was no price listed. That was usually a bad sign, a code for “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” But the word ‘change’ snagged on something raw inside her. Change was what she craved. An erasure. A new start. Desperation was a key that could unlock any door, even one that looked suspiciously like a trap.

The building itself was an anomaly. Squeezed between a derelict warehouse and a pawn shop, it was an impossibly clean, narrow structure of grey stone and dark glass. There was no grime on its facade, no graffiti scarring its walls. It felt… sterile. Wiped clean.

The lobby was silent, the air cold and still. The floor was polished concrete, the walls a stark white, and the only furniture was a single severe-looking black chair. A woman sat behind a matching black desk, her posture as straight and unyielding as a steel rod.

This had to be Lilith.

She looked up as Eden entered, and the first thing Eden noticed was that she didn’t blink. Her dark eyes, set in an unnervingly symmetrical face, simply fixed on her. She appeared to be in her late thirties, her pale skin flawless, her dark hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to stretch the skin at her temples. She wore a sharp grey blazer and black slacks, an outfit that screamed corporate efficiency, not residential management.

"You're here about the room," Lilith said. It wasn't a question. Her voice was low and melodic, with no discernible inflection.

"Yes. I saw the flyer," Eden managed, clutching the strap of her worn backpack.

Lilith’s lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. "We have one vacancy. Third floor. 3B." She slid a thin manila folder across the desk. "We are an institution dedicated to fostering personal honesty and accountability. Our rental agreement reflects that."

Eden opened the folder. It wasn't a lease. It was a single, thick sheet of paper titled 'Community Guidelines'. Her artist's eye, long dormant, scanned the crisp, unnervingly perfect typography. The rules were… odd.

Rule #5: All reflective surfaces, including mirrors, are prohibited within residential units. Polished metals and standing water should be avoided.

Rule #9: All window blinds must be fully closed between the hours of 9 p.m. and 7 a.m. No exceptions.

Rule #14: Do not speak to other residents in the hallways. A nod of acknowledgement is sufficient.

There were twenty-one rules in total. They ranged from the bizarre to the draconian, each one feeling less like a building regulation and more like a commandment from a strange, hidden religion. But it was the last one that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.

Rule #21: Access to the fourth floor is strictly prohibited. For your peace of mind, it is best to consider it non-existent.

"I'm on the third floor," Eden said, her voice small. "What's on the fourth?"

Lilith’s smile didn’t waver. "It's a service space. An architectural quirk of the building's design. It's not for residents. The rule is simply a formality to prevent confusion." Her explanation was smooth, practiced, and utterly unconvincing.

“And the rent?” Eden asked, bracing herself.

“Rent is not our primary concern. Your commitment is.” Lilith slid another object across the desk. It was a handsome, leather-bound journal, completely blank except for the embossed symbol of an arch on the cover. “A new entry is required each night before you sleep. A tool for radical honesty. If you can be honest with the page, you can learn to be honest with yourself.”

Eden stared at the journal. This was insane. A cult. A social experiment. Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong here. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to run back out into the cold, unforgiving street.

But then she thought of sleeping in a bus station again, of the leering faces and the gnawing hunger. She thought of her ex, and the cold, suffocating certainty that going back was not an option. This place was strange, but it was four walls and a lock. It was a shield. The small, faded tattoo of a soaring bird on her wrist felt like a mockery. She wasn't soaring; she was trapped, looking for any cage that felt safer than the wild.

"I'll take it," she said, the words tasting like ash.

Lilith’s smile widened by a fraction of a millimeter. "Excellent. The first prompt is already waiting."

The apartment, 3B, was as sterile as the lobby. A single bed with a grey blanket, a small desk, a chair. The walls were bare, the window already fitted with a thick, light-blocking blind. It was a cell, but it was her cell. Exhaustion finally won, a heavy blanket that smothered her anxiety. She dropped her backpack, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed, succumbing to a dreamless, leaden sleep.

She awoke hours later to absolute darkness and a sound.

Scrape. Drag. Scrape.

It was coming from directly above her. A slow, heavy, rhythmic dragging. It wasn't the sound of footsteps. It was the sound of something limp and heavy being pulled across a floor. A sack of sand. A roll of carpet. A body.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The fourth floor. The floor that didn't exist.

The sound continued, a maddeningly slow journey across her ceiling before it faded into silence. Eden lay frozen, every muscle coiled tight. She was wide awake now, the sterile quiet of the apartment more terrifying than the noise had been.

Her gaze fell on the journal sitting on the desk, a dark rectangle in the gloom. The prompt. She remembered Lilith’s words. A new entry is required each night.

Flicking on the small desk lamp, she opened the journal. On the first crisp, white page, a single sentence was written in an elegant, looping script she recognized as Lilith’s.

What lie did you tell today to get what you wanted?

Eden’s breath hitched. She had told dozens. The little ones she told herself—You’re fine, you’ve got this—and the ones she told the world. Forcing her trembling hand to be still, she picked up the pen provided. She couldn't write the truth. She couldn't write about the ex she'd fled, the lies she’d told him just to survive until she could escape. To write it down felt like giving a piece of her soul to this place.

So she wrote a different lie. A safer one.

I told the woman at the coffee shop I had exact change when I didn't, so she wouldn't have to break a fifty.

It was small. Pathetic. Meaningless. But it was an answer. She closed the book, the leather cool beneath her fingers, and tried to regulate her breathing. It was just a weird building, she told herself. Just a creepy landlady with a new-age obsession. The noise was just the pipes.

She sat there for what felt like an hour, staring at the journal. Curiosity, that treacherous and most human of impulses, finally got the better of her. With a sense of dread, she reached out and opened the journal again to the page she had just written on.

Her own handwriting was there, just as she'd left it.

But below it, two new lines of text had appeared. The ink was a different colour, a sharp, clinical black, and the handwriting was a cramped, jagged scrawl, nothing like Lilith’s elegant script. It looked as if it had been carved into the page by a shaking hand.

That is not the truth.

Do not waste our time.