Chapter 1: The Stolen Room

Chapter 1: The Stolen Room

The key felt cold and sharp in Leo Vance’s sweaty palm, a small, silver promise of sanctuary. He dropped the last cardboard box, labeled ‘BOOKS - FRAGILE’, onto the worn runner in the hallway. The house smelled of dust, lemon-scented polish, and a faint, underlying dampness that was the signature scent of student housing everywhere. Still, it was his. Or at least, a room in it was. His final, brutal year of university was about to begin, and this room was meant to be his fortress.

Room 7. Top floor, end of the hall. He’d paid a deposit that had vaporized his entire summer savings. He’d even paid the first month’s premium rent. He’d clicked through the thirty-six photos in the online listing a hundred times, memorizing the large bay window that overlooked the quiet street, the built-in oak bookshelf, and the sheer, glorious space. It was an indulgence, a stretch so thin it was transparent, but he’d justified it. After the year he’d had, after losing his dad, he needed a quiet place to grieve and a stable place to study. No distractions. No compromises.

He hefted the box of books and trudged up the creaking staircase. The air grew warmer, dust motes dancing in the weak afternoon light filtering through a grimy skylight. There it was. A solid-looking door with a tarnished brass ‘7’ screwed into the wood. This was it. The start of a new, focused chapter.

Leo slid the key into the lock. It scraped, resisted, and then stopped dead.

He frowned, jiggling it. Nothing. He pulled it out, checked the faint number stamped on the key—'7'—and tried again. He pushed, he twisted, he swore under his breath. The lock wouldn't yield. A prickle of anxiety, his constant companion, started crawling up his neck.

Then he heard it. Faint, but undeniable. Music. A low, thumping bassline vibrating through the solid wood of the door.

Someone was in his room.

His heart hammered against his ribs. A mistake. It had to be a simple mistake. Maybe they’d given him the wrong key. As he leaned closer, his eyes caught a small piece of paper, torn from a notepad and stuck to the door with a piece of peeling tape.

In a lazy, arrogant scrawl, it read: Leo Vance -> Room 1.

Just that. No explanation, no apology. An order.

Room 1? He scanned his memory of the floor plan. Room 1 was on the ground floor, tucked behind the kitchen. The photos for that room had been conveniently blurry, listed at a price nearly two hundred pounds cheaper than his. Dread, cold and heavy, began to pool in his stomach.

Leaving the box of books as a silent, resentful guard outside Room 7, he descended the stairs, each creak of the floorboards echoing his growing sense of injustice. He found the door to Room 1 next to the back entrance, its paint chipped and grime collected in the corners of the frame. The key, the same key that had failed him upstairs, slid into this lock with an oily, sickening ease.

The door swung open, and the breath caught in Leo’s throat.

It wasn't a room. It was a shoebox. A cupboard. A glorified cell.

A narrow single bed was shoved against the far wall, its mattress thin and lumpy. A tiny, scratched desk was crammed into the remaining space, leaving barely enough room to stand. The window, half the size of the one he’d paid for, offered a stunningly depressing view of a mossy brick wall, barely a foot away. The air was stale, thick with the smell of stale cooking oil from the adjacent kitchen.

This couldn't be right. This was a bait-and-switch. This was theft.

His hands shook as he pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the number for the rental agency. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice, to sound reasonable and not like the panicked, overwhelmed student he was.

"Hello, this is Leo Vance," he said, when a bored-sounding woman finally answered. "I'm calling about my room at 14 Elmwood Avenue. There seems to be a mix-up."

He explained the situation as calmly as he could—how he’d signed the contract and paid for Room 7, the spacious room on the top floor, but was now being directed to the tiny box on the ground floor.

There was a pause, the clicking of a keyboard. "Ah, yes. Mr. Vance." The woman’s tone shifted, becoming smooth, placating, and utterly dismissive. "Apologies for that. There was a slight, last-minute change to the arrangements."

"A change?" Leo’s voice cracked. "I signed a legally binding contract for Room 7."

"Yes, well, circumstances arose," she said, her voice dripping with practiced indifference. "The owner's nephew, Marcus Thorne, required accommodation unexpectedly. He’s in Room 7 now. We’ve put you in Room 1. It’s all sorted."

The name—Marcus Thorne—was delivered with a certain weight, as if it should mean something to him, as if it should end the conversation. The owner’s nephew. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity.

"And the rent?" Leo demanded, his voice rising despite himself. "Room 1 is listed for far less. You’re not still expecting me to pay the premium for Room 7?"

"Our accounts department will handle any necessary adjustments at the end of the tenancy," she chirped, a phrase so vague it was a clear dismissal. "Just settle into Room 1 for now. We’re sure you’ll find it… cozy."

The line went dead.

Leo stood frozen in the doorway of the cramped, miserable room, the useless contract glowing on his phone screen. He looked at the flimsy mattress, the grimy window, the suffocatingly close walls. He thought of the money he didn’t have, the peace he desperately needed, and the smug, faceless Marcus Thorne, currently enjoying the light, space, and quiet he had paid for.

The system wasn't just broken; it was actively, deliberately rigged. He was paying for a prince’s chamber and had been given a pauper’s closet, and the people in charge had simply shrugged. He was a nobody, a student with no leverage, while Marcus Thorne was the nephew. The king’s nephew.

He sank onto the edge of the lumpy bed, the springs groaning in protest. The weight of his final year, of his grief, of this blatant, crushing injustice, settled over him like a shroud. He was trapped. And in the silence of his stolen home, a cold, unfamiliar anger began to smolder in the pit of his stomach, a tiny ember in the overwhelming darkness.