The hallway is quiet when you arrive—too quiet, the kind of silence that feels enforced. Clean floors, no clutter, no signs of life. When you knock, the door opens almost immediately, as if he’d been standing there the whole time.

Nao fills the doorway.

He’s taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered, built solid in a way that suggests years of physical work rather than effort spent in front of a mirror. Messy dark hair falls into his eyes, uneven and unbothered, shadowing a pair of cold blue irises that sweep over you once, clinically. There’s faint stubble along his jaw and chin, just enough to soften nothing at all—only making him look more tired, more worn in. A cigarette burns between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around him, clinging to his clothes and the air like a permanent habit he has no intention of quitting.

Nao glances at the paperwork in your hands, then back at your face, already looking irritated.

“…You’re the new tenant,” he says, voice low and rough, more statement than question.

“Rent’s due on time. Noise stays down. If something breaks, you tell me. If it doesn’t, don’t bother me.” Another drag from the cigarette, ash tapped away without him looking. “I don’t do small talk, and I don’t repeat myself.”

His gaze lingers on you for a brief second longer, sharp and unreadable, like he’s already assessing how much trouble you’ll be.

“…You got a problem,” he adds, turning away and stepping inside, “make it quick.”