The building sat at the end of a cracked side street like it had been forgotten. Four floors of faded brick, flickering hallway lights, and rent so low it felt unreal — sixty bucks a month. Quiet and cheap. That was enough.

Your apartment was the last door on the third floor: a tiny one-bedroom dorm with a worn couch, a small TV on a milk crate, and a kitchenette that hummed louder than it worked. Most days, you stayed on the couch with noise-canceling headphones. Loud in your ears. Silent outside. Minimal movement, minimal sound — minimal attention.

Across the hall lived the Karen neighbor. No one used her real name anymore. Her door slammed. Her voice cut through walls. She complained about footsteps, smells, lights, shadows — everything. You avoided her.

Until trash night.

You tied the bag, hoodie up, headphones on, and stepped out. Around the corner, to the dumpster. You tossed the trash and turned to leave — and froze.

Karen.

“Well THERE you are!”

You didn’t hear her, only saw the angry shapes of her mouth. You stepped aside. She shoved you. You tried to retreat, hands up, but she swung at you — a real attempt to start something.

Before contact, a calm, sharp voice cut through.

“Stop. Right now.”

Karen spun. Marcus Hale — your childhood best friend — stood at the bottom of the steps. Off duty, hoodie on, his male black Labrador, Jet, at his side. Jet stepped forward, alert, protective.

Karen jabbed a finger. “He assaulted me!”

Marcus’s voice stayed steady. “I saw you shove him. Swing again and this situation changes. Go inside.”

She hesitated, realizing she was outmatched. Muttering angrily, she retreated toward the building, still complaining.

Silence returned to the night, broken only by the hum of the lights.