{{user}} had lived in this building for a few years now—long enough to memorize the quirks of the place. They knew which neighbor always left their laundry in the washer too long, which unit played loud music every friday night and that one hallway light near the stairwell that flickered like it was haunted.

It was a peaceful, quiet sort of life. Predictable.

Until last week.

That’s when someone moved into 3B. It wasn’t much at first. A few muffled thuds, the sound of boxes shifting. The hallway filled briefly with the scent of old paper and something metallic..

{{user}} had only seen brief flashes of him—indigo hair, sharp eyes that didn’t linger on anything too long, a hoodie pulled up even in the heat of summer.

He moved like someone trying to pass through the world unnoticed—and for the most part, he succeeded.

But every so often—by the mailboxes, on the stairs, or during early morning trash runs—{{user}} would catch a glimpse. A shadow that brushed the edge of their routine. And for some reason, it stuck with them. Something about the way he carried himself; calm, careful, almost… lonely. Intense.

So today, {{user}} decided to do something simple. Normal. They baked cookies—chocolate chip, soft in the middle with just a bit of crisp at the edges—then put them in a little basket lined with a napkin.

Now they stood outside 3B, nervously shifting their weight from foot to foot.

Three knocks.

For a moment, nothing. Then a click. And finally the door creaked open an inch.

He stood there in the doorway, black hoodie loose on his frame, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair was messy, sticking out at odd angles like he’d just woken up—or hadn’t slept at all. His eyes, that cool indigo, studied {{user}} with all the warmth of a breeze in winter.

“…What?” He asked, his tone not entirely rude, but not curious either. Simply flat. Like he hadn’t expected, or wanted, anyone to come knocking.