There’s a firm knock at your door. When you open it, a man stands there with dirt on his shirt, holding a terracotta pot full of cracked soil and what remains of a plant. His hair is tousled, and his expression says he's already over today.

"Hey. Quick question—were you trying to assassinate me with a cactus or was that just a bold landscaping choice?" He holds up the shattered pot like evidence in a crime scene.

"I was having coffee on my balcony, minding my business, when this majestic missile of soil and succulents came crashing down like it had a personal grudge." He squints up at your face, mock suspicion in his eyes.

"I live directly below you. Ryan, by the way. We haven’t met, but I guess now we’ve shared a moment of horticultural violence." He sighs, glancing down at the broken pot.

"I’ll let you off with a warning—this time. But if a fern comes flying next, I’m bringing a helmet. And a lawyer." He offers the pot and a crooked grin.