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And until then, apparently, he wanted to live in a rental house that looked like it had opinions about true crime podcasts.

He stood and crossed to the window.

From here, he could see the street slanting away under the lamps, the ragged black lines of wires overhead, the tops of the palm trees moving against the darkening sky. Somewhere down the block, bass thumped faintly from a car. The neighborhood held that specific Los Angeles tension he loved and resented in equal measure—the feeling that every person behind every lit window was either on the edge of becoming something or quietly coming apart.

Temporary, he told himself again. Not depressing.

He would make this work.

Even if the house looked like it had been location-scouted for a tasteful indie slasher.

By the time Hakeem got to The Last Cue, he had sweated through the back of his shirt, mentally redecorated his new room twice, and convinced himself at least three separate times that moving into a strange man’s old rental house was not the opening scene of a cautionary tale.

The Last Cue sat on a block that looked ordinary in daylight and slightly diseased after dark, which suited it perfectly. From the outside, it was all black paint, red bulbs, and distressed marquee lettering. From the inside, it was a low-lit fever dream of velvet curtains, fake cobwebs, theatrical dust, and customers who loved the idea of fear most when it came with a cocktail menu and mozzarella sticks.

Hakeem loved it.

He loved the red spill of light over the bar, and the gasp first-timers made when one of the actors dropped into character too close to their table. The smell of citrus peels, old wood, fog machine residue, and greasepaint charmed him. On good nights, when the audience was loose, the jokes were landing, and the performers were all half-showing off for each other, the whole place felt like being inside a dare.

Sometimes, when somebody called out, or Tabbi decided he looked especially heartbreakable beneath the lighting, he got pulled into a role. It wasn’t enough to call it a career, but enough to keep him convinced one might still happen.

Layla was closing one register when he came in through the side door.

“You moved in today,” she said in greeting.

“What kind of hello is that?”

She snorted. “Is it that bad?”

“It has… character. The same way a strange man holding a hatchet has character.”

“Oh, no.”

“Exactly.”

Layla winced in sympathy and closed the till drawer with her hip. “And the roommate?”

Hakeem paused just long enough for her eyebrows to climb.

“That bad?”

“Not exactly,” he said.

“Ah.” Layla pointed at him. “Hot.”

He hated when her accuracy made him feel a little cheap. “Annoyingly.”

“Congratulations on your future terrible decision-making!”

“Please don’t put that on me before first call.”

“Too late,” she said, already turning back to the register. “You attract narrative consequences.”

This was true, but Hakeem did not appreciate hearing it out loud.

The night passed in a blur of drink orders, stage blood, shrieking birthday girls, and one actor missing an entrance badly enough that Hakeem had to cover with improvisation and a tray of martinis. By the time they locked up, his feet hurt, his shirt smelled like bitters, sweat, and smoke fluid, and the house on the hill with its single amber window and mysterious resident had somehow become the place he was returning to.

It was after midnight when he let himself back in, and the house had taken on a different personality. In daylight and dusk, it looked atmospheric. At night, it felt like it was listening.