Chapter Text
Prologue
The street was wet. Not that it had rained again - not properly - but everything still felt damp, like the city had been sweating under its own grey weight. Jonas kept his head down as he walked. His coat had started to smell like the bus, and he should’ve washed it two weeks ago, but it was the only one that still had both pockets intact. His socks were cold. He hadn’t stepped in a puddle. They were just always cold now.
When he reached the corner, he could already see that the apartment was lit. Ground floor, left window glowing a soft, artificial yellow against the blue-black of early evening. A familiar sight. Familiar enough that he didn’t stop walking, didn’t even really think about it, until he reached the shared door to the staircase. He dug out his phone more out of routine than worry.
New notification from the app. Mr. Pogačar had checked in. No issues reported. No messages, no missed calls, nothing under “urgent.”
Great.
That was how it should be. That was exactly why he’d installed the keypad two years ago, first thing, even before he bought the new mattress. The old one had smelled weird and had a visible dent in the middle, but the keypad had felt more important. No need for key handovers. No awkward check-ins. No small talk at the door. Most of the time he didn’t even see them. They came, they lived, they left. He cleaned. Three text messages max: confirmation, Wi-Fi info, goodbye.
His phone buzzed again, but it was probably a work email. He ignored it.
Inside, the hallway was warm in the wrong way - radiator turned up too high by one of the other tenants, or maybe just the kind of heat that clung to old buildings and made the walls sweat.
He dropped his shoes by the door and didn’t bother straightening them. Didn’t bother turning on the ceiling light either. The lamp in the corner worked well enough, even if it buzzed a little. It matched the tone of the day. Constant hum. Constant grey.
He boiled water. Not for tea - just for something hot. The mug had a chip on the handle, but he used it anyway. There were dishes in the sink that he didn’t remember using, and a plant near the window that definitely needed more than whatever sad sip of daylight it was getting lately. He thought about watering it. Then didn’t.
Downstairs, the light was still on. He noticed it falling into the front yard when he walked to his bedroom window to draw the curtains. Not because he cared. Just because it was there.
He hadn't looked at the guest profile once. He didn’t think about his guests. That was the point. They weren’t people to him. They were dates and reviews and confirmation codes. He managed the place, not their vacation.
The wind picked up. Something rattled faintly outside - probably the gate again. He should fix that hinge before it tore loose completely. He wrote a note on his phone: check gate. Then deleted it. He’d remember. Or he wouldn’t. It didn’t really matter.
He sat on the couch and drank the hot water slowly. It tasted like the kettle. He didn’t mind.
At some point, he pulled out his phone again. Scrolled past the app icon. Then went back to it. Just to double check.
No new messages. Mr. Pogačar had let himself in at 16:07. Heating turned on. WiFi connected. No additional questions.
Jonas locked his phone again.
This was the system. This was the rhythm. A few nights, a few automatic replies, and then the apartment would be empty again for two days minimum between guests. That was when it felt cleanest. Not while people were in it. Not while it smelled like someone else’s shampoo and their weird grocery choices sat in his fridge. But when it was empty. When it was quiet again. Scrubbed and wiped and neutral.
He thought, for a second, that he’d left a window cracked open. There was a faint chill near the corner of the room, just where the draft came through in winter. He stood up, checked it, but it was closed. Just the walls breathing wrong again.
Downstairs, footsteps. Light ones. Not the thudding kind that dragged luggage up the steps. Just movement. A short walk to the kitchen, maybe. Or the bathroom. Jonas could never tell through the floorboards. The apartment had good insulation, but still - when it was quiet, you noticed things.
Jonas sat back down and wrapped the blanket tighter around his legs.
It was darkening outside. He didn’t have plans for the evening. He never did on guest days. Not that he had them on non-guest days either, but at least then he didn’t have to think about anyone existing ten feet below him. People who had lives. People who had suitcases and itineraries and a reason to be here.
The lamp buzzed. He adjusted it slightly. It still buzzed.
Another footstep from below. A cupboard closing.
Jonas pulled his blanket up higher. Drank the last of the hot water. It was lukewarm now. But fine.
Just a regular Monday. One guest. Three messages maximum.