You had exactly two requirements when looking for your new apartment in the city: privacy and peace. The real estate agent had sworn the penthouse floor would be quiet. No parties. No traffic. No drama.

So why, at exactly 2:16 a.m. for the third night in a row, were you hearing someone shouting through the wall?

“If the merger doesn’t close by Friday, you’re all fired— no exceptions!”

You groaned, dragging your pillow over your head. "Shut up, corporate Dracula," you muttered.

The next morning, you marched down the hallway in fuzzy socks and a t-shirt, fully prepared to yell at your incredibly loud neighbor. You knocked like your rent depended on it.

The door swung open, and you stopped.

He was barefoot, shirtless, and only wearing gray sweats—arms crossed, hair tousled, face sharp and deeply unamused.

“You’re louder than I am,” he said coolly.