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**Chapter 1: Echoes of the Glass Cage**
The rain had been falling for hours when Cross finally reached his building.
Not violent. Not dramatic. Just steady. Persistent. Like something that had decided it wasn't leaving anytime soon.
He climbed the dark stairwell without turning on the lights. Fifth floor. No elevator, as always.
Halfway up, he froze.
For a moment, he wasn't sure why.
The stairwell felt… occupied.
He paused, ears straining.
Only the steady tap of rain against the narrow window between floors.
He exhaled slowly and continued upward.
---
Inside his apartment, the stale air welcomed him like an old ghost.
He dropped his bag by the door and stood motionless in the dark.
Silence pressed in—a heavy, suffocating weight.
He used to welcome silence. Not anymore.
Fully dressed, he lay down. The chill from his soaked jacket seeped into the sheets.
He didn't move.
Sleep had abandoned him weeks ago—since the accident.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the image clawing to surface.
Thunder rumbled softly in the distance.
Exhaustion pulled him under.
---
A scream tore through the building.
"AAAAAAHHHHH!"
Cross's eyes snapped open.
He stayed perfectly still.
The silence returned too quickly, too easily.
He stared at the ceiling.
No footsteps in the hall. No voices.
He turned onto his side.
"Someone else will deal with it," he muttered, voice dry and distant.
Then—
Knock.
Just one.
He froze.
It hadn't come from the door.
It came from… somewhere closer.
He sat up slowly.
Nothing.
He almost laughed to himself.
Old pipes. Old walls. Jittery nerves.
He lay back down.
Knock… knock… knock.
This time unmistakable.
From the door.
Slow. Even. Patient.
His throat tightened.
"Go to someone else," he called out hoarsely. "Mr. Amir on the third floor. The neighbors downstairs. I'm not—"
But the knocking stopped.
Silence followed.
Yet it wasn't empty.
It felt… like waiting.
Cross stayed awake long after.
Eventually, sleep stole him again.
---
Morning light yanked him back to reality.
He glanced at the clock.
"Damn it."
Late again.
The fear of his professor replaced the previous night's unease.
Real problems were easier to handle.
He grabbed his bag and rushed out.
Descending the stairs, he noted something odd.
Two apartment doors stood slightly ajar.
Not wide—just enough to reveal darkness within.
No movement. No sound.
He slowed, heart quickening.
Then forced himself onward.
Not my business.
---
By the university gates, cold air mixed with sweat clinging to his skin.
"I hope he's not here yet," Cross muttered.
The lecture hall buzzed with scattered clusters of students, talking and laughing.
Relief washed over him.
He headed straight to Ayman.
"Ayman. Notebook. Now."
Ayman glanced up lazily. "Overslept again?"
"Just give me it."
Ayman tossed him a worn bag. "Ten pages. You're dead."
Cross flipped it open, copying frantically, his handwriting uneven.
That's when he noticed an extra name at the top.
Laila.
Cross's pen hesitated.
He didn't remember anyone named Laila in their group.
"Still copying, Cross?"
A girl leaned over beside him—black hair framing a calm face, violet eyes sharp beneath fluorescent lights.
His stomach twisted.
"Who… are you?"
She blinked slowly.
Ayman frowned. "What's wrong? It's Laila. She's been with us since first year."
Cross stared.
"That's not funny."
Ayman rolled his eyes. "You okay? You look like hell."
Cross looked back at the girl.
Laila.
Her face seemed unfamiliar.
Yet at the same time—
A faint pressure pushed behind his eyes, like a memory trying to surface.
"I sit here every lecture," she said softly. "Right behind you."
Behind you.
He turned slowly.
There was a chair. A bag. A notebook. Normal. Too normal.
---
Pain exploded in his head.
He dropped his pen, clutching his temples.
The hall blurred around him.
Then—
Tap.
Not loud.
Tap… tap… tap…
Shallow breaths.
The sound wasn't outside.
It was inside.
The same rhythm from last night.
No.
Faster. Impatient.
The lecture hall door swung open.
The professor stepped in.
No shouting. Not yet.
He placed his briefcase on the desk and scanned the room.
His eyes lingered on Cross a moment too long.
"Page seventy," he said, voice calm.
Too calm.
Cross swallowed.
Leaning toward Ayman, he whispered,
"Has she always been here?"
"Yes," Ayman said sharply. "Stop acting weird."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Cross's eyes locked on the massive wooden door at the hall's rear.
This time—
He heard it.
A faint rhythmic knocking—from outside.
His eyes widened.
He wasn't imagining it.
"Don't you hear that?" he whispered.
"Hear what?" Ayman muttered.
The professor stopped writing.
The chalk hung frozen against the board.
Slowly, he turned.
His gaze fixed on Cross.
Silence swallowed the room.
"You three," the professor said quietly, pointing at Cross, Ayman, and Laila.
"Out."
No shouting. That made it worse.
Cross's legs wobbled as they moved.
The knocking grew louder. Closer.
Each step thickened the air.
Laila walked beside him, steady and calm.
Just before the door, she leaned close.
"It's been knocking for you since last night."
Cross stopped.
The knocking ceased instantly.
And for a brief moment—
He felt something on the other side.
A smile.
---
Cross's voice broke the silence.
"What did you say?"
He looked at her cautiously, searching for clues behind her unnerving calm.
"I was asking if you were okay," Laila replied softly, words simple but heavy.
Cross's chest tightened.
He stared again, sensing something he couldn't grasp.
Ayman, beside him, grabbed his hand silently.
He pushed the door open and led them toward the exit, avoiding further ire from the professor.
They stepped into the quiet hallway.
Laila walked with them, her steps sure—like a part of the mystery itself.
Cross felt an odd weight pressing between him and her.
He wondered silently:
Who is this girl really?
Has she always been here... or is something else happening?
---