The lock clicks. Someone buzzes me in again. Still no security. Still no sense of self-preservation. I love a consistent brand.
Up the stairs I go, heels tapping like a countdown to divine retribution, only to be met with nothing. No robe ghost. No pink slippers. No haunting whispers about birds. The hallway is eerily empty.
I pause outside Kira’s door. Same cracked paint. Same energy as a vegan influencer caught photoshopping their smoothie. I uncap my lipstick, Chanel red, shade: “unhinged, but you’d still fuck me.”
In large, dramatic cursive, I scrawl directly across the door:
TAKE FRIDAY OFF, KIRA. THE MUSE IS ANGRY.
Then add a little heart. For flavor.
Next, I pull out the knife.
It’s adorable. Glitter handle, soft pink grip, a little heart charm dangling from the hilt. I brace. I stab. Or… I try.
The knife bounces off the door.
I grit my teeth, reset my stance, and go again.
Bounce.
Nope.
Apparently, the door is made of retired tank armor and spite.
“Ugh. Why is violence so heavy?” I say, halfway to giving it a good kick for sass when I hear a door open.
Out drifts the man. Him. Fuzzy robe. Bluetooth headset. The Hollow-Eyed Poultry Prophet himself. Only now he’s shirtless underneath the robe and holding a mug that says: Cluck Around and Find Out.
I freeze, knife in hand, halfway through attempting to commit door-based intimidation art.
He watches me. No blinking. Just that slow, birdlike bob of his head.
“Hi again,” I say, like we’re old coworkers at a psych ward reunion.
“Only the chosen may pierce the bird’s domain,” he whispers.
I don’t blink. I stand there, halfway between fear and fan club membership. “I just wanted her to feel vaguely unsafe on her own welcome mat.”
He narrows his eyes. “Intentions are seeds. Some grow into corn. Some into crows.”
“Would you mind?” I make a door stabby gesture. Because at this point, why the fuck not? Entrusting a knife to a poultry cultist is the most logical choice I’ve made all day.
Without breaking eye contact, he takes a deliberate step toward me and extends one bony hand.
I hold out the knife.
He takes it. No hesitation. Like we’ve done this before in another life.
And with eerie, unshaking grace, he plunges it into the door, right under my lipstick message. Buries it to the hilt.
I clutch my imaginary pearls and inhale like a bitch in a corset. “Wow. Thank you. That was incredibly validating.”
He nods. Serious. Grave. As if this was a spiritual act.
“You have… tremendous stabbing energy.”
He clucks like he’s calling down thunder and points at the knife.
