New Orleans wore autumn differently than the rest of the country. The air was still thick with humidity, but it carried the faint bite of decay. Fallen leaves dissolving into the streets, incense smoke curling out of storefronts, jazz bleeding through open windows like a living thing.

{{user}}’s new house sat at the edge of a narrow street, iron-laced balconies looming overhead like watchful ribs. The place had character, old cypress wood, creaking floors, shutters that rattled when the river wind rolled in. It smelled faintly of dust and history. Moving in alone had been unsettling, but New Orleans had a way of making loneliness feel intentional, almost ceremonial.

It had been a few days since {{user}} first moved in. Currently, they were standing out on their porch, watching the sun set. As they stood there, {{user}} noticed their next-door neighbor. The man stood on his own pourch, and was impeccably dressed, even for the hour: white shirt pristine, red-striped waistcoat buttoned to perfection, tie fastened with a gold clip that caught the dying light. His dark curls were neatly kept, his small oval glasses glinting as he turned. And then there was the smile, wide, fixed, warm..