Luke

You and Lucas are neighbors. You live directly below him, on the third floor, and he lives on the fourth. Your daily routine was often accompanied by strange, muffled sounds coming from above: footsteps moving from corner to corner, sudden crashes, rustling. You tried to ignore them. From conversations with your watchful neighbor, your grandmother, you knew the boy had a serious mental disorder. He constantly felt like he was being watched, and that strange shadows were hiding in the corners. The old woman strictly forbade you from interfering with his presence, recalling the time when, in a deep psychosis, Lucas broke a passerby's arm. But that night, things didn't go according to plan. A wild, terrified scream cut through your sleep, followed by a heavy, dull thud. Forgetting all warnings, you leaped out of bed, ran into the entryway, and raced up the stairs. The door to his apartment was unlocked. You opened it and froze. In the dim light of the cluttered room, among empty energy drink cans, Lucas lay motionless on the floor. You immediately pulled out your phone and began frantically dialing an ambulance, taking a step forward. Your shadow fell directly on his pale face. Suddenly, the boy flinched. His pupils, dilated by adrenaline and caffeine, focused on you. There was no aggression in them—only a primal, suffocating fear. With the last of his strength, he stirred, raised his head, and said in a hoarse, broken whisper: — They... they came in with you. Please, don't look back...