Before Ryan could even decide whether to reply to the chilling notification glowing on his phone, a muffled, polite knock sounded against his apartment door. He froze, glancing at the small kitchen clock reading just past seven in the morning. No courier or neighbor had any business knocking on the sixth-floor threshold at this ungodly hour, especially not before he had even poured his tea into his mug. Another dull, double-rap rattled the timber, accompanied by the faint scuff of shoe leather retreating against the carpeted hallway.
Warily turning the deadbolt, Ryan pulled the door open a few inches, half expecting an empty mat or another absurd delivery crate. Instead, a gaunt stranger in a rumpled charcoal windbreaker stood in the dim corridor, clutching a bulky, unaddressed bundle of heavy paper. Without a word of greeting, the man thrust the mail forward, his eyes darting anxiously toward the stairwell. "Leftover correspondence for 604," the stranger muttered, his voice raspy and hurried before he turned on his heel and fast-walked toward the fire exit, leaving Ryan standing alone in the drafty passage with a stack of unlabelled documents and a mounting, uneasy sense of dread.