He didn't take the elevator when he left the room. Instead, he chose the stairs. I lived on the 17th floor. Despite his light steps, the motion-sensor lights in the stairwell flickered on in response. I stumbled along behind him, like his shadow, awkward and grotesque.

"What exactly are you up to?" I asked.

He paused to respond, "I told you, you'll know once we get there."

I thought for a moment before adding, "Doesn't it seem creepy if someone overhears me talking to you like this?"

As he continued down the stairs, he replied, "Don't worry. Only I can hear you. No one else knows you exist."

His words left me silent. No one knew I existed. Which meant I had no chance to call for help. Was I doomed to exist as a shadow in this world?

Two minutes later, he finally reached the first floor. But he didn't stop. He continued down into the basement.

He took a long route through the basement to reach a temporary exit. From there, we stepped out into the back street of the neighborhood. The back street was lined with rows of old, worn-out houses.

The street was eerily silent. Occasionally, a clap of thunder cracked across the night sky. The blinding flash of lightning revealed a figure and its shadow. He was the figure. I was his shadow.

After weaving through several narrow alleys, we suddenly arrived in front of a building.