ANDREW ZEIGER

THE HOUSE AT THE EDGE OF TOWN RADIATES A STRANGE ENERGY, yet every corner is hollow, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for a moment that has already passed...

Inside, the television in the living room flickers, casting its cold blue light across a man slouching in the recliner. His large body spills over the edges of the chair, the folds of his clothing creased from hours of stillness. He sits motionless, almost peaceful, while the low murmur of a woman reporting the news fills the air. His head tilts to one side, as if a deep sleep has claimed him. The lamp by his side brushes its faint light against his limp hand resting over the armrest.

Outside, the programmed wind whispers against the windows, curling around the corners of the house, probing for a way in. A half-empty bottle of beer sits on the table, the condensation long gone. Soda cans, empty and forgotten, sit scattered around, casting long shadows in the flickering light. A faint breeze escapes from the air vent, just enough to make one can wobble, tapping softly against another in a rhythmic clink, like the ticking of a quiet, unseen clock.

The man doesn't stir. The house doesn't move.

The voice of the news anchor slices through the silence, sharp, brittle.

"...no new developments on how eight prisoners managed to escape. What we do know is that the authorities are scrambling to contain the situation..."

The man's eyelids twitch faintly, but his chest remains unmoving, undisturbed by the tension in the anchor's voice. Across the screen, the words "The Fortress Breach" scroll in bold, white text. Below it, a live feed of flashing police lights and distant figures moving in the shadows of the prison fills the frame.

A low creaking noise comes from the hallway. The door, closed only moments ago, is now ajar. Its hinges groan, and a shadow stretches along the wall like the slow reach of nightfall.

Still, the man in the recliner doesn't move.

The voice of the news anchor presses on, filling the emptiness with grim details. "The public is urged to remain cautious. The escapees are highly dangerous, and anyone with information should contact the authorities immediately. The question on everyone's mind remains: how did they do it? And more importantly, why haven't they been found yet?"

The wind outside picks up, rattling the windows softly. Inside, the only sound is the faint tap of soda cans and the drone of the news.

From the darkened hallway, something shifts. The faint outline of a figure steps forward, barely visible in the pale light of the television.

The camera on the screen cuts to black-and-white mugshots, one after another, with names flashing beneath them. The anchor's voice reads off each one, her tone grim.

"Julian Rodrigo... convicted of war crimes..."

The house remains still, the figure pulls a large, black sweater over his head, the fabric loose against his slim body. He smooths it down with methodical precision.

"Jasmin Sorensen... wanted in connection to a string of political assassinations..."

The figure steps forward, their face hidden in shadow. Beneath the recliner, the stain on the carpet begins to spread, inching outward. A soft patter, almost rhythmic now, drips down from the man's hand.

The next mugshot fills the screen, the name scrolling across the bottom.

"...Andrew Zeiger... convicted of mass arson and the deaths of sixteen civilians..."

At the mention of his name, the figure moves into the living room, his gaunt face illuminated by the cold light of the television, his eyes scanning the room.

It's Zeiger. His mugshot lingers on the screen, a ghost of the past caught in stark black and white.

Zeiger steps lightly over the threshold, his movements deliberate and quiet, as though he's been here before. His gaze drifts over the man in the recliner for a moment, his expression unreadable. The door opens silently as he disappears into the night, the wind catching it just as it closes behind him with a soft click.

Inside, the house is a tomb. The wind rattles the windows, but the man remains unmoving, his chest still, lips a cold blue. His wide, glassy eyes are fixed on nothing, a hollow stare that stretches beyond life.

The drip beneath his hand continues, slow and steady. The dark stain on the carpet has spread, reaching farther across the floor in a lazy, creeping motion.

The television hums with static now, the anchor's voice lost in the buzz. But the house remains quiet. Too quiet.

The man isn't asleep.