John tiptoed through the apartment, socks on, shoes in hand, determined to sneak past his roommate’s 2 a.m. Netflix binge. The floorboards creaked like a haunted house. He froze. Silence. Then, a single squeak from his socked foot—*squeak*. He froze again. The door loomed, stubborn as a grumpy raccoon. He tugged. It groaned. He tugged harder. The handle twisted free, landing in a puddle of spilled coffee. The roommate’s voice boomed: ‘Who’s there?’ John whispered, ‘Just the house settling!’ The roommate appeared, bleary-eyed and holding a remote like a sword. ‘You’re a terrible liar,’ he said, pointing at the coffee-stained door. John glanced down—his sock now clung to the handle, twitching like a dead fish. ‘It’s… a new rug?’ he tried. The roommate snorted. ‘You’re lucky I’m already awake. I was about to call the cops.’ John opened his mouth. The roommate held up a hand. ‘Don’t. Just… go to sleep.’ John retreated, socks now emitting a low, mournful whine. The next morning, the roommate found a note: ‘P.S. The rug’s not mine.’
