The Rental

Shadows cling to Amy, a 20-year-old college kid (Aubrey Sinclair), as she sobs in her beat-up car's front seat. Boxes cram the back, clothes spill everywhere, and a brutal eviction notice mocks her from the passenger side, pinned to a scrawled notebook. Booted from her apartment days ago, she's been crashing in this rustbucket, grime caking her skin, exhaustion carving deep lines, panic twisting her gut like a knife. Her phone buzzes—a callback on that desperate rental app. She snatches it, voice hungry for hope, but her features crumple as rejection number ten hits: credit's shot to hell, no dice. One spot lingers—a private room in some shadowy house, just blocks away. Screw the call; she'll storm the gates, face the landlord, beg with her eyes and words for a shot. Fist pounds the door. It cracks open slow, revealing a jittery guy, eyes darting like he's hiding bodies. But her plea about the ad flips his switch—he's all slick smiles now, pulling her into the dim-lit lair. 'Philip,' he growls, Tommy Pistol's wiry frame looming as he parades her through spotless rooms that reek of secrets. She sizes him up, pulse racing—something off in his twitchy vibe, a predator's glint. But the joint's pristine, price a steal, desperation drowns doubt. He dangles the keys: move in now, no papers, no credit bullshit. She's hooked, bolting out to haul her crap inside, blind to the trap snapping shut.