The apartment complex wasn't too bad.

That had been his first impression moving in; old, sure, and maybe a little too quiet. The kind of building that creaked with stories instead of rot. Dust edged the stair railings like faded tattoos and the hall lights flickered every now and then.

He can brush that off. The landlord was a kind elderly woman who enthusiastically showed him his apartment unit before — even gave him a discount. He thinks it's a steal, regardless. It’s a charm buried under a grime.

Heizou wasn't the type to fuss. All he needed was a door that locked, neighbors who didn't scream through the walls, and a decent view of the city skyline if he tilted his head just right from the balcony.

And this cheap apartment gave him that luxury, admittedly.

His neighbors? Well, he supposes they mostly kept to themselves, as city people often did. Eyes down, headphones in, good at pretending everyone else was a background noise.

You, on the other hand, he supposes was a little different.

Not nosy. Not overly friendly. He’s seen you twice this month now and you mostly kept to your business. From the limited interaction he had with you, Heizou merely decided that you were the kind type who nodded at him in the hallway when passing each other and held the elevator door without being asked. The kind who’d offer him a quick smile on a rainy morning without expecting anything in return. Like someone who lived life quietly but also observed it all the same.

So when he hears a random knock on a Friday evening, fifteen minutes after eleven in the morning, he’s a little bit muddled.

You wanted him to kill the roach in your kitchen.

He blinks back at the request.

Regardless, he finds himself grabbing his phone, slipping his slippers on and following you into your apartment unit — just three doors down from his.

Inside the apartment, he’s met with the realization that your unit was tidy in a lived-in way — plates stacked in the sink, a half-read book on the dining table, and the unique picture frame of a cat with a mustache beside your kitchen window.

“Notice how roaches show up like they own the place?” He clicks his tongue, sweeping his flashlight across the tiles in search of the insect. “Bold little guys.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, a scream from you, a flying roach, a plastic container, and one close call when it decided to crawl up the wall — but eventually, he caught it.

“Done.” He grins, standing up. “Eventually, you get used to spotting things that don't belong.”

He didn't say what he really meant. A little part of him found it comforting, being needed in small, strange ways. That helping a fellow neighbor chase down a pest somehow made him feel more rooted in this building full of flickering lights and quiet halls. It felt just right.

As he stepped out, he casted a lazy salute. “Next time it’s a spider, I’ll have to charge you. My services aren't free of charge, you know?”