THIN WALLS

Prologue

The corridor was narrow. Dark. Far too silent for a place that was supposed to be lived in. Then a sound broke through. 

Krek… krek… krek…

Something hard being cut. Not slowly, but rhythmically.
Heavy. Rough. Like wood.
Or… bone.

Luki stood at the end of the corridor, his breath caught in his throat. The sound was coming from the very last room, the old door slightly ajar, gaping as if it were waiting. He knew he should leave. But his feet moved anyway.
One step. Two steps.
The closer he got… the clearer the sound became.

Krek…

His hand touched the doorknob. Cold. Without thinking, he pushed it open. The door opened.
And the world seemed to stop. A man stood inside. His back facing him. His body was covered in blood. Thick, dark red, dripping slowly onto the floor.
In his hand… a machete. Its blade was wet.

Krek… The sound wasn’t wood.

Slowly… the man stopped. Then he turned. His face couldn’t be seen clearly. But his eyes locked onto Luki. Luki’s heart seemed to stop beating. The man took a step forward. 

One step. The machete lifted.

Two steps. Luki stepped back, but his body felt heavy, as if the floor itself was holding him in place. 

Three steps. The blade swung straight toward him.

TOK! TOK! TOK!

“Luki! Wake up, man! It’s already late!”
Luki jolted awake. His breathing was uneven. His body drenched in sweat. His room. His bed. Morning. Just a dream. He stared at his hands. Empty. 
Yet… his heart was still pounding unnaturally fast. And for some reason, the sound still echoed in his head. 

Krek… krek…
As if… it had never really stopped.

He sat up on the edge of his mattress, burying his face in his hands. The morning light filtered weakly through the dusty windowpanes of the first-floor room, exposing the floating dust motes in the air. It was just another nightmare, he told himself. A product of late-night study sessions, endless cups of cheap instant coffee, and the looming pressure of his final-year exams. 

But Luki was a logical person. He specialized in analytical thinking, preferring cold facts over abstract fears. Why did the dream feel so visceral? Why could he still smell the metallic tang of blood, thick and heavy, lingering at the back of his throat? 
He stood up, grabbing a towel from the back of his chair, and opened his door to face the reality of the morning.