Caleb didn’t sleep.Not due to caffeine—he couldn't afford to buy coffee. Not due to the mice scratching in the attic—he'd grown accustomed to his furry little roommates.No, it was the folder. The thing sat on his counter all night like a glowing wound, humming softly, daring him to open it again.Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see it: his name slithering down the page as though it were animate, the pen trembling on its own. And looming over all of it, that voice—velvet, smooth, like the pitchman for his worst nightmares: Sign, Caleb. Sign.At some point he got up, shoved the folder into his fridge, and slammed the door. Like that would help. It only made the milk curdle faster.By morning, his flat reeked of rotten milk and poor decisions.---Caleb sat on the futon playing an unstrung high E guitar. The song went nowhere. All the notes sounded thin, empty, as though his fingers no longer believed in the music.He grumbled to himself, "So who would know? I sign? No one would

Caleb didn’t sleep.Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the folder glowing on his nightstand like a nightlight from Hell. He’d tried hiding it under his bed, shoving it into his laundry basket, even tossing it in the trash chute—yet somehow, every time he turned around, it was back on the nightstand.Finally, in a fit of 3 a.m. logic, he stuffed it into the freezer. Between a bag of frozen peas and half a pint of melted ice cream, it hummed softly like an unplugged refrigerator with opinions.By sunrise, Caleb was on his couch, eyes bloodshot, sipping stale coffee that tasted like burnt cardboard. He’d convinced himself he could just ignore it. He could out-stubborn Hell.“It’s paper,” he muttered into his mug. “Paper can’t hurt me. Paper doesn’t have teeth. Paper doesn’t—”The ceiling light flickered.He froze.From somewhere deep inside the walls came the faint sound of scratching. Like nails dragging across wood, slow and deliberate.“…probably a rat,” Caleb added weakly, though

Caleb woke up to the smell of pizza.Not a normal pizza smell either — not grease-slick delivery boxes, not frozen cardboard reheated at three a.m., not even Lena’s half-burnt homemade “I followed the recipe, I swear” attempts.This was perfection.The kind of smell that made your stomach growl before your brain even caught up. Dough kissed by smoke, cheese melting like sunlight, toppings arranged with the mathematical precision of a god.He opened his eyes.There was a steaming, perfectly boxed large pizza sitting on his nightstand.Caleb sat up so fast he nearly headbutted it. “What the—?”The box was pristine. No grease stains, no delivery stickers, no receipt shoved under the lid. Just a little embossed symbol on top: a circle with a tiny devil tail curling off the edge.“Oh, hell no,” Caleb muttered. “Literally hell no.”But his stomach betrayed him. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, when Lena had confiscated his “emergency ramen stash” after discovering it was six months expired.

Caleb sat hunched on the couch, chin in his hands, glaring at the pizza box humming on the counter like it was mocking him. The smell still hung in the apartment—cheesy, greasy, way too alive for anything edible. It wasn’t even food anymore; it was a dare. His stomach growled like an angry dog. “No,” he muttered, jabbing a finger at the box like it could hear him. “You don’t get me twice. I’m not about to have another heart-to-heart with pepperoni.” The pizza hummed louder, like it was offended. Caleb dragged himself to the fridge. He yanked it open, bracing for more horrors—maybe glowing milk, or an apple that coughed—but what he found made his eyes widen. Sitting dead center was a neat black plastic tray of sushi. Salmon rolls. Tuna. Even a tiny container of soy sauce, like it had been catered by some five-star Japanese place. Caleb blinked. “Oh… oh my God. Actual food.” He didn’t even question it. Hunger bulldozed suspicion. He grabbed the tray, popped it open, and dunked a

The air outside the apartment complex was as sharp and merciless as a new bill. Caleb was on the stoop, holding the black notebook like a very tiny, very damned book. Everything else seemed to be just… ordinary. A man in a business suit rushed by, speaking on his phone. A little kid, six at most, was trying to ride a training-wheel bike that squealed around each bend. A woman was watering some plants. The sun was shining bright, the birds were singing sweet melodies, and all the air was filled with the scent of fresh pavement and coffee. It was an incredibly beautiful, typical morning, and Caleb felt like a fraud to walk through it.He was a new soul hunter. The thought was so ridiculous, so utterly insane, that he almost laughed. Almost. But then he remembered the mooing milk and the starving trash can, and the chuckle stuck in his throat. This wasn't funny. This was reality. He was a man who spent his afternoons trying to write a brilliant chorus, and now he was doing this. He was a