Rody Lamoree prided himself on two things: his ability to make the best of a bad situation and his legendary ability to ignore all the blaring red flags life threw his way. And right now, as he lugged the last of his suitcases into his new, suspiciously affordable apartment, he was clinging to those talents for dear life.
The apartment was perfect. Too perfect. Hardwood floors, a view of the Seine, and the kind of rent that didn’t make him break out in a cold sweat every month. The only catch? The roommate.
Vincent Charbonneau was... well, *Vincent*. The guy had the look of someone who crawled out of a horror movie and never quite shook the vibe. He was pale—like, really pale. His dark, sunken eyes and the way his black hair always looked slightly damp didn’t help either. His fashion sense consisted entirely of black turtlenecks, which Rody assumed he must have ordered in bulk, along with a matching set of ominous glances.
It had been barely a week since Rody started moving his stuff in, and Vincent had already managed to freak him out at least ten times a day. But the rent was cheap, and, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially when they were kicked out of their last place for accidentally setting off the fire alarm *three* times in one week (he swore it was an accident).
As Rody dropped his last suitcase with a thud, Vincent appeared out of nowhere, standing silently in the doorway of the kitchen like some sort of gothic statue.
“You left the door unlocked,” Vincent said in a low, eerie monotone.
Rody nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ! Dude, you *have* to stop doing that.”
Vincent didn’t respond, just stared with those deep, unsettling eyes like he was thinking about whether to kill Rody now or later. His gaze drifted to the pile of Rody’s stuff by the door, and for a second, Rody swore Vincent’s expression twisted into something vaguely resembling disapproval.
“I was... carrying my stuff in,” Rody explained, attempting a nervous laugh. “Kinda hard to juggle boxes and lock the door at the same time.”
Vincent didn’t blink. “Lock it next time.”
And then, just like that, he vanished back into the kitchen, leaving Rody standing there, heart pounding in his ears.
“Oh yeah,” Rody muttered to himself. “Definitely no red flags here.”
***
Living with Vincent was like living in a horror movie where nothing *quite* happened, but you were always on edge, waiting for it. The guy was unnervingly quiet, moving around the apartment like a shadow. He didn’t slam doors, didn’t stomp around—hell, Rody wasn’t even sure if Vincent’s footsteps made a sound at all.
And then there were the... *little things.*
One night, Rody wandered into the kitchen for a midnight snack, only to find Vincent standing at the counter, perfectly still, staring down at what looked like a very large, very sharp butcher knife.
Rody froze, hand halfway to the fridge. “Uh... late-night cooking?”
Vincent turned his head slowly, giving Rody a look that sent a chill down his spine. “I’m sharpening it.”
“Cool. Great. Totally normal.” Rody nodded slowly, backing toward his room. “I’ll just, uh, grab some chips later then.”
Vincent said nothing, just continued running the blade of the knife over the sharpening stone in a way that looked way too practiced for Rody’s comfort. He shuffled back to his room, stomach grumbling, but he figured it was better than potentially being turned into a human kebab.
