Chapter 3 - The Ghost Tenant
Back in the penthouse, total chaos had erupted.
The two little kids—my niece and nephew—woke up from the sudden shift in the apartment's atmosphere. The harsh red lighting and the strange, mechanical whirring of the automated window shutters snapping shut threw them into a terrified fit of crying.
“Auntie Paige, I want to go home!” the younger one wailed, burying his face in a suitcase.
“Shut up, just shut up for a second!” Paige screamed back, her veneer of entitlement completely shattered. She grabbed her phone, pressing it frantically to her ear. “Mom! Mom, are you still there? The doors won't open! There’s... there’s a voice coming from the ceiling speakers!”
Through the camera feed, I heard the crisp, computerized voice of the apartment’s defense AI echo through the halls: “Warning. Unauthorized occupants. You are currently trespassing in a federal secure zone. Remain where you are. Law enforcement has been dispatched.”
On the speakerphone, my father’s voice boomed, thick with bewildered rage. “What kind of sick joke is this, Marissa?! Why does your apartment have a computerized voice threatening us? Did you install some weird security system just to humiliate your sister?”
I leaned toward my laptop microphone, speaking softly into the empty hotel room as if they could actually hear me through the ether. “It’s not my apartment anymore, Dad. You should have asked before you stole the keys.”
Paige dashed toward the front door, throwing her entire weight against the heavy steel-reinforced mahogany panel. She jammed her fingernails into the smart-lock keypad, punching in the management emergency code my parents had illegally acquired.
The keypad flashed a harsh, unforgiving amber, followed by a flat, digital buzz: ACCESS DENIED. OVERRIDE REVOKED.
“It won't open!” Paige sobbed, hitting the door with her fists. “The lock is dead! We’re trapped!”
“You’re not trapped,” I murmured, watching her frantic movements on my screen. “You’re just finally locked inside the consequences of your own actions.”
Outside in the hallway, the low, rumbling thrum of heavy tactical boots began to echo against the polished concrete floor. The elevator banks at the end of the corridor chimed, and the distinct sound of tactical gear shifting filled the air.
Paige froze. The crying children stopped for a heartbeat.
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Through the peephole and the hallway camera, I watched the beam of tactical flashlights slice through the dim corridor lighting. Heavy, authoritative knocks rattled the front door.
“U.S. Marshals Service! Open the door immediately!”
