The Night Tenant

Cal’s eyes open to darkness. His room, silent. But something feels… wrong. His limbs are heavy, unfamiliar. He flexes his fingers—stiff, reluctant to obey.

He swings his legs off the bed. His feet touch the floor, but the sensation is dulled.

He stands, wobbling slightly. A sharp pain jolts through a knee he never had a problem with before.

He staggers to the bathroom and flips on the light. His reflection stares back. His face. His eyes. But something about them is… vacant.

Something moves inside him. A deep, twisting sensation, like his nerves are unspooling. He grips the sink, fighting nausea. Then, a sound—low, guttural—bubbles from his throat.

A voice, not his own.

“I’m still here.”

The room blurs. Cal’s breathing turns ragged.

“You don’t remember, do you?” it says.

His hands shake as he tries to steady himself. “Who—who are you?” His own voice sounds foreign, distant.

“Your night tenant,” the voice confirms. “They never told you, did they?”

A sharp pulse of static pain erupts in his skull. Flashes of memory—not his, but someone’s. A neon-lit clinic. A clipboard with a name, redacted. A smiling doctor—Maximised Efficiency, Minimum Waste printed on his badge.

And then, the realisation slams into him—cold, brutal, undeniable.

His body isn’t his alone.

He clutches his chest. His heartbeat pounds beneath his ribs, but it feels… stretched thin.

“They lease you out at night,” the voice says. “To those who can afford it.”

Cal stumbles backwards. His own mind, invaded. His body, divided.

“Don’t worry,” the voice soothes, with something like hunger. “You get the day. I take the night. Fair trade, isn’t it?”

Cal tries to call for help. But his mouth isn’t his anymore.