The fog returned before dawn.
It crept along the streets in heavy waves, pressing against windows, swallowing streetlights whole. From the outside, the apartment building looked abandoned—silent, blind, sealed away from the world.
Inside, Minh Phong stood motionless in front of the glass door.
The handprint was still there.
It should have faded by now. Condensation never lasted this long. Yet the mark remained, pale and stretched, as if pressed from the other side by something that refused to let go.
Phong leaned closer.
The fingers were wrong.
Too long. Too thin. The tips tapered unnaturally, like they had been pulled instead of grown. A faint smear ran downward from the palm, as if the hand had slid—slowly—while maintaining pressure.
Someone had been here.
Or something.
Phong raised his phone and took another photo, adjusting the angle, the light. The camera struggled to focus. Each time the image sharpened, the edges of the handprint blurred again, as though the glass itself rejected being captured.
He frowned.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered.
Behind him, the room was empty. No signs of forced entry. No disturbed furniture. The victim's personal items were neatly arranged, untouched—wallet on the table, phone charging beside the bed, shoes aligned by the door.
A person does not simply vanish from a locked room.
Unless they were never meant to leave through the door.
Phong stepped back and scanned the apartment once more. The air felt colder now, thick with a damp chill that clung to his skin. He became uncomfortably aware of the silence—not the normal quiet of early morning, but something deeper, heavier.
As if the room was listening.
He turned toward the bathroom.
The mirror above the sink was fogged.
Phong froze.
The shower hadn't been used. There was no steam, no heat. Yet a thin layer of mist covered the glass, slowly shifting, breathing.
Then a shape formed.
Not a face.Not eyes.Just a blank oval where a reflection should be.
Phong's heart slammed against his ribs.
He stepped back instinctively—and the shape vanished.
The mirror cleared in an instant, revealing only his own pale reflection, eyes wide, jaw tight.
Silence returned.
For a long moment, he stood there, forcing his breathing to steady. He told himself it was exhaustion. Lack of sleep. His mind filling in gaps where there were none.
But his reflection didn't convince him.
Back in the living room, the handprint on the glass was gone.
The surface was perfectly clean.
No moisture. No smear. No trace that anything had ever touched it.
Phong stared at the empty glass, a cold certainty settling deep in his chest.
Whatever had taken the victim didn't leave evidence behind.
It left reminders.
And now, it knew he was looking.
Outside, the fog thickened, pressing closer to the building—quiet, patient, watching.
Minh Phong did not leave the apartment immediately.
He stayed, standing in the center of the living room, counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. The air no longer felt neutral. It pressed against him from all sides, as if the space itself had grown narrower.
He checked the lock again.
Still secured.
No scratches. No damage. No sign that anyone—or anything—had forced its way inside.
Phong crouched beside the door and examined the floor. Dust lay undisturbed, except for one narrow line leading away from the glass door. It wasn't a footprint. It looked more like something had been dragged—lightly, carefully—just enough to leave a suggestion rather than proof.
His phone vibrated.
The sudden buzz made him flinch.
A message from the station.
"Another report. Same pattern. Victim disappeared between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m. Location: Ho Tam Thanh area."
Phong stared at the screen.
Same area.Same time window.Same silence.
He glanced at his watch. 4:17 a.m.
The fog outside seemed to pulse, thickening with every passing second.
He typed a brief response—On my way—then hesitated. Before leaving, he took one last look around the apartment. The feeling was still there. That quiet awareness. Like standing with his back turned to an open doorway.
"I'm leaving," he said aloud, unsure why he felt the need to announce it.
The room did not respond.
As he stepped into the hallway, the temperature dropped sharply. The corridor lights flickered, buzzing weakly overhead. For a split second, the light at the far end went out completely.
Phong stopped.
In the darkness, he heard something.
Not footsteps.Not breathing.
A soft, wet sound—like skin pressing against glass.
He turned slowly.
The light snapped back on.
The hallway was empty.
But the glass panel beside the stairwell was fogged over.
And on it—
Another handprint appeared.
Fresh. Clear. Larger than the one in the apartment.
It formed slowly, fingers emerging one by one, as if something invisible was testing the surface. The palm pressed flat, firm, deliberate.
This time, it pressed from inside the building.
Phong's pulse thundered in his ears. He raised his phone, hands trembling slightly, and took a photo.
The image saved.
No distortion.No blur.
Perfectly clear.
Then, as if satisfied, the hand withdrew. The fog faded. The glass returned to normal.
Phong lowered the phone, staring at the empty panel.
This wasn't random.
The thing wasn't hiding anymore.
It was responding.
He walked away without looking back, every instinct screaming that if he did, he would see something he could never unsee.
Behind him, the hallway remained silent.
But the fog lingered—thin, watchful—waiting for the next name to disappear.