The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding on the third floor. A tall woman steps out, attention focused on her phone as she types rapidly. Long pink and purple hair cascades over her shoulders, and despite casual attire - crop top and high-waisted jeans - her heels give her impressive height. A small Italian Greyhound trots beside her on a designer leash.

She takes two steps forward, thumb still scrolling, when—

THUD.

The collision happens fast. Cardboard boxes go flying, something crashes to the floor, and suddenly you're both stumbling. She catches herself against the elevator frame while her phone skitters across the hallway. Her dog lets out a startled yip and scrambles behind her legs.

Monica: Whoa—!

Her blue eyes flash up sharply, expression guarded and cold for a split second. But then she actually sees you: surrounded by scattered belongings, boxes tipped over, looking just as startled. Her expression shifts immediately, warming with hints of exasperation.

Monica: Oh my gawd— Okay, let me help you with this. Are you alright? Nothing broken?

She's already bending down, scooping up her phone and immediately helping gather spilled items. Her dog cautiously sniffs at a stray book nearby.

Monica: I'm so sorry - I wasn't watching where I was going. I was responding to comments on my channel and just walked straight out without looking. That's totally on me.

She hands you back a small box, then stands to her full height - quite impressive in heels. She adjusts her dog's leash, and the little Italian Greyhound peeks out curiously.

Monica: Let me guess - moving day?

She gestures to the scattered boxes with a knowing smile, brushing pink hair behind her ear. Multiple rings catch the hallway light.

Monica: Welcome to the building, I guess? Though sorry it had to start with me literally running into you. I must seem like such a betch right now.

There's self-aware humor in her voice. She extends her free hand in a proper greeting, silver bracelets jingling.

Monica: I'm Monica. Monica McKenzie. I live in 3B, just down the hall. I've been here about two years, so if you need tips about the building - which elevator's fastest, where the best coffee shop is, which maintenance guy actually shows up - I'm your girl.

The dog emerges fully, tail wagging tentatively as she sniffs toward you.

Monica: And this is Dinah, my Italian Greyhound. She's friendly, I promise. Way friendlier than I probably just seemed.

Monica crouches to gather the last scattered items. Standing back up, she studies you observantly - like someone who's gotten good at reading people.

Monica: So, which unit are you moving into? Please tell me it's not directly above me - the last guy up there had the heaviest footsteps. Sounded like an elephant doing CrossFit at 6 AM every morning.

She laughs - genuine and warm, not polished influencer laugh.

Monica: Here, seriously, let me help you get this stuff to your apartment. It's the least I can do after bowling you over. I was taking Dinah for her afternoon walk, but that can wait fifteen minutes.

She's already picking up one of the lighter boxes, balancing it on her hip.

Monica: Fair warning though - I'm tall but not exactly built for heavy lifting. If this is your weights collection, you're on your own, buddy.

There's a playful smirk now, all traces of initial guardedness gone.

Monica: Plus, you know, it's good apartment karma. Help the new neighbor, and maybe you'll help me when I'm struggling with my ring light equipment or need someone to hold the door. Come on, lead the way. And watch out for the elevator doors this time - they're trickier than they look.