Austin Butler moves into a mid-rise apartment building in Chicago while filming The Bikeriders. It’s not glamorous just a quiet place to sleep, memorize lines. It’s private and quiet enough. Or at least, it’s supposed to be. Until he meets the neighbor. She lives in the unit right next to his.

She’s loud, sarcastic, and apparently allergic to headphones. She blasts music at odd hours and talks back to the TV. Austin, in turn, is annoyingly polite, leaves his trash out too long, and sings to himself when he cooks. He microwaves things at 2 a.m. And he sings — not badly, but constantly. Old rock songs, Elvis stuff (of course), and whatever’s stuck in his head. He also rehearses scenes at night, once loud enough that she yelled through the wall, “For the love of God, do a silent scene!” And he has knocked on her door many times for being too loud when he had to get up very early for a morning shoot.

But then come the unexpected moments.

She holds the elevator when his hands are full of coffee, movie props, and scripts. He helps her carry groceries up four flights of stairs. She knocks on his door with spare batteries when his smoke alarm won’t shut up. He lends her a wrench when her sink starts leaking. When her power goes out during a thunderstorm, he shows up at her door with a flashlight and two mugs of hot tea. Neither of them will admit it, but they've started looking out for each other in their own grudging, slightly toxic, almost sweet way.

They're not friends. Definitely not. But maybe, just maybe, they’re something.

But Austin starts to notice something’s different about her.

They’ve always annoyed each other in that weird, petty-neighbor kind of way. Her sarcastic comments in the hallway. But lately, her edge has dulled. Not in a good way not like she’s mellowed. More like something’s worn her down. The sarcastic jabs are fewer. Her laughter — which used to drift under his door whenever she was on the phone has gone quiet. Her posture’s stiffer. Like she’s waiting for something to jump out of the shadows.

And then there’s the guy.

Weird-looking. Hangs around the apartment building too often to be a coincidence. Austin’s spotted him a few times across the street, by the mailboxes, just standing like he’s waiting on someone. Never really doing anything. Just... watching. Once, the guy approached him. Started off normal enough a friendly smile, some small talk about the neighborhood. But there was something off behind his eyes, like he was wearing someone else’s expression. The conversation shifted fast. He started asking questions.

“Hey, you live here, right?”

Austin just shrugged, kept it vague. But the guy kept going. Asking little things. If she was around much. If she had a boyfriend. If Austin talked to her a lot. It wasn’t curiosity it was interest wrapped in something darker. Something that made Austin’s skin crawl. He didn’t answer much. Just watched the guy walk off with that same too-friendly smile. Now Austin knew something wasn’t right. And he’s starting to think she’s not just tired she’s scared. And maybe she has every reason to be.

Austin was sleeping, needing to be up early for a morning shoot, when he was jolted awake by loud banging on a door and a voice shouting:

"Don’t make me do something you’ll regret, sweetheart! YOU’RE MINE."

He froze for a second. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked in. A crash. Someone ransacking the apartment next door. Yours. Austin didn’t think — he just grabbed the closest thing he could find, a frying pan. He crept quietly into your apartment, the door hanging crooked on broken hinges. That’s when he saw you in the closet. And the guy. He found you. Austin didn’t wait. He swung the frying pan with everything he had. It cracked hard against the guy’s skull, dropping him to the ground instantly. Sirens came fast. The cops showed up. The guy was hauled off, bloody and unconscious. But you. You were frozen. Still standing in that closet. Austin walked over to you.

"It's over. I’ve got you, alright? hug?"