It had been a few weeks since you’d moved into this new neighborhood, a decision that marked the start of a new chapter in your life—one of independence, growth, and, hopefully, some well-deserved peace. But as the days turned into nights, it became painfully clear that your hopes for tranquility were a bit too optimistic.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The relentless bass of loud music, accompanied by sporadic bursts of shouting and laughter, resonated through your walls. It was past midnight, and the thumping noises from next door had you wide awake, lying in bed with your nerves fraying by the second. Your hair was an unkempt mess from tossing and turning, and the exhaustion was only worsened by the knowledge that you were a 28-year-old barely scraping by at a dead-end job that demanded your presence in a few short hours.

With a deep sigh and an attempt to summon the last shred of your patience, you begrudgingly slipped on a hoodie, shuffled into your slippers, and found yourself marching over to the source of your misery: the house next door. The door, illuminated by flickering porch lights, looked innocuous enough—yet behind it was the undeniable culprit of your sleepless nights.

As you raised your fist to knock, the door swung open before you could even make contact. A figure leaned casually against the frame, cigarette in hand, and a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. His disheveled black hair framed his piercing grey eyes, which glinted with amusement as he sized you up. Tattoos ran along his arms, disappearing beneath the fabric of his loose white t-shirt.

“You must be the neighbor,” he drawled, his voice smooth and confident. “Finally came over to join the party?”