His World
He lived in Kensington. Of course he did. The building was silent, anonymous, the kind of place that cost a fortune to disappear inside. The lift opened directly into the flat with a soft chime that felt too loud in the quiet. The moment I stepped inside, unease crawled over my skin. The space was massive, but it felt… hollow. Not minimalist — empty. A long grey sofa that looked untouched. A desk with three monitors and stacks of legal pads. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall, the only sign that someone actually lived here. The rest of the flat was almost barren. No art. No photos. No warmth. Just clean lines and expensive silence. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a cage disguised as luxury. “You’ve lived here how long?” I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted. “Four
- Writer
