Chapter 2: The Ghost of Room 7

Chapter 2: The Ghost of Room 7

Weeks bled into a miserable, monotonous rhythm. Leo's life became defined by the four grimy walls of Room 1 and the ever-present phantom who occupied his stolen sanctuary. Marcus Thorne was a ghost. A poltergeist of privilege who haunted the house with the low thrum of a sports car engine at dawn and the slam of the front door long after midnight. Leo never saw him, not once. He only saw the evidence of his existence: a pair of designer trainers left carelessly in the hall, an empty bottle of expensive whiskey by the recycling bin, and the infuriatingly silent door of Room 7.

The financial strain was no longer a vague anxiety but a constant, gnawing hunger. The premium rent he was still paying for this glorified closet vaporized from his account on the first of the month, a digital slap in the face. His budget for food shrank, then shriveled. Instant noodles became a staple, their salty broth a poor substitute for a real meal. He started skipping lunch to save a few pounds, the resulting headaches making it impossible to focus on the dense academic texts that were piling up on his tiny, scratched desk. His grades, once his only source of pride, began to slip. He’d stare at lines of code until they blurred into meaningless symbols, his mind consumed not by algorithms, but by the burning injustice of it all.

His first attempts at communication were pathetically polite. He’d type out neat, reasonable notes, explaining the situation and asking, very civilly, if they could discuss the rent disparity.

Hi Marcus, the first one read, I’m Leo from Room 1. I think there’s been a mix-up with the rental payments. Would you have a moment to chat this week? Thanks.

He’d slide it under the door of Room 7, his heart pounding with a ridiculous mix of hope and fear. The next morning, the note would be gone. But silence was the only reply. He tried again a week later, his tone a little more direct. The result was the same. The notes vanished into the ghost’s lair, and his existence continued to be ignored.

His frustration began to curdle into a quiet obsession. He’d listen for Marcus’s footsteps, pressing his ear to his own door, trying to piece together a schedule, a pattern, anything that might lead to a face-to-face confrontation. He felt pathetic, a prisoner in his own home, stalking a man he’d never even met. The other housemates drifted around him—a quiet postgraduate who was never home, a couple who kept to themselves—their normal lives a stark contrast to his own solitary struggle. He was completely, utterly alone in this.

Or so he thought.

One evening, staring into a pot of boiling water that held his dinner for the third night in a row, he heard a voice from the kitchen doorway.

"Let me guess," it said, a dry, witty tone cutting through his miserable reverie. "You’re contemplating the existential despair of MSG, or you’re thinking about the Ghost of Room 7."

Leo turned. A young woman with vibrant purple streaks in her dark hair and a silver nose ring leaned against the doorframe. She held two mugs in her hands, her expression a mix of knowing amusement and genuine empathy. He’d seen her around, but they’d never spoken.

"I'm Chloe," she said, nodding towards the kettle. "And you're Leo. The guy they stuck in the shoebox."

A blush crept up Leo’s neck. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to anyone with eyes," she said, stepping forward and pouring water into her mugs. She pushed one towards him. "Tea. Better than salty water, anyway. Look, I know the deal. Marcus is the landlord’s nephew. He’s a walking trust fund with the personality of a spoiled avocado. Politeness isn't a language he speaks."

The bluntness of her words was like a splash of cold water. For the first time in weeks, Leo felt a flicker of something other than helpless anger. He felt seen.

"I left notes," he admitted, his voice low.

Chloe snorted. "That’s cute. You probably used full stops and everything. He likely used them to wipe something expensive off his shoes. You can’t reason with guys like that. You have to fight them."

Her fierce loyalty was immediate and unconditional. She became his ally, his strategist. Chloe, an art student-turned-barista, had a finely tuned bullshit detector and a deep-seated hatred for the entitled. She listened as he vented his weeks of pent-up frustration, nodding along, her sharp wit providing a dark, humorous commentary that made the whole situation feel slightly less hopeless.

"So, the agency is useless, and the ghost won't materialize," she mused one night, perched on the worn-out sofa in the living room. "That means we need intel."

His obsession gained a new focus. With Chloe as his co-conspirator, it no longer felt pathetic; it felt like a mission. He stopped trying to confront Marcus and started simply observing, listening. And one Friday night, his chance finally came.

The sound of loud laughter and clinking bottles echoed down the hall from the living room. Marcus was home, and he had company. Leo’s heart began to thump a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He was in his room, feigning sleep, the door cracked just enough to listen.

"I'm telling you, it was perfect," a smug, confident voice boomed. Leo knew instantly it was Marcus. It was a voice dripping with the effortless arrogance of someone who had never been told ‘no’. "My uncle just pulls a few strings, and boom. The penthouse suite is mine."

Another voice, sycophantic and loud, chimed in. "What about the guy who was supposed to have it?"

Leo held his breath. This was it.

Marcus let out a short, cruel laugh that sliced right through the thin walls. "Who cares? Some dumb student. The best part is, the agency is so incompetent, they're still charging him the premium rate for it. So he’s paying for my spacious, sun-filled room while he’s living in that shithole closet by the kitchen."

The group erupted in laughter.

Some dumb student.

The words hit Leo like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. It wasn't just a mix-up. It wasn't an unfortunate circumstance. It was a deliberate, calculated act of contempt. He wasn't a person to Marcus Thorne; he was a joke. A nameless, faceless sucker to be scammed and laughed at with his rich friends.

The simmering frustration that had been his constant companion for weeks instantly evaporated, burned away by a sudden, white-hot fury. The humiliation was a cold, sharp blade twisting in his gut. He gently pushed his door shut, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the silent room.

He looked at his reflection in the dark, grime-streaked window—the tired eyes, the glasses, the slightly messy hair of a 'dumb student'. Something inside him shifted, a tectonic plate of his personality grinding into a new, harder position. The money didn't matter anymore. The notes, the polite requests, the desperate hope for fairness—it had all been a waste of time.

This was no longer about getting a refund. This was about respect. And he was going to make Marcus Thorne pay for every last shred of it.