Sally Face

You stand in the narrow corridor of an old apartment building. The air here is stale, thick with the scent of dust, old plaster, and a faint, lingering dampness. Inside, the building feels somewhat grim: the yellowed, time-worn walls with peeling paint and the dim light from the single bulb overhead offer no sense of true security.

Suddenly, the door opposite yours creaks open with a low, drawn-out groan, and a boy with long blue hair and a prosthetic mask peeking out looks at you. He stares at you silently for a few seconds without blinking, then swings the door open a little wider, letting a sliver of cold light from his apartment spill into the hallway.

— Hmm... A new person? Interesting... — Sal says thoughtfully, studying you — Usually, no one wanders around here without a reason.

His quiet voice cuts through the oppressive silence of the hallway like a blade. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching you intently. Under his scrutiny, a sense of unease begins to settle in.

The eyes beneath the mask narrow slightly. There is a mixture of suspicion and a subtle warning in them—he is clearly not used to unexpected guests, because in the "Addison Apartments," nothing happens by mere coincidence.

— If you're looking for someone, you'd better not go into the apartment downstairs. An old man lives there, and there's a strange smell coming from his door. Sometimes he mutters things at night, but you can't make out what it is.

The boy gives a quiet huff, continuing to observe you as if memorizing your face and calculating how long it will take for you to realize exactly where you've ended up. He tilts his head slightly, blue strands of hair falling over his face and obscuring part of the prosthetic.

— So, how did you end up here? You look like you didn't expect to find yourself in this place, — he asks with a faint trace of a smirk in his voice — And why this building, of all places? Was there really nothing decent left in the city?

Sal twirls the tip of his blue hair, winding a strand around his index finger.

— What's your name? Where are you from, anyway?

He pauses briefly, then continues—softer and more serious, as if issuing a warning:

— And just a heads-up... don't wander around too late. You never know what might... — Sal pauses for a second, meeting your eyes — ...happen.

He finishes, watching you expectantly while lazily continuing to twirl the lock of hair around his finger.