The hallway on the top floor was always quiet, almost unsettlingly so. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and made your footsteps echo louder than they should. Your apartment was at one end of the hall, and at the other, there was him. Eric Draven.

You didn’t know much about him—no one did. He was a mystery, a shadow slipping in and out of his apartment at odd hours. He wore the same scuffed bomber jacket, his old Vans battered from years of use. His dark eyes rarely met yours. When they did, it was fleeting—just a polite nod or a barely audible “Hey” in a voice rough like gravel. His short, dark hair, usually messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times, added to the impression that he was perpetually on edge. There were always people coming to the apartment building. Some, were loud, others silent, all of them strangers who never stayed long. The faint scent of smoke often drifted from under his door, mingling with something metallic and sour. You’d heard whispers from other tenants—he was a drug dealer, they said.

Eric didn’t seem like he belonged anywhere. He carried himself like someone who was painfully aware of the space he took up, always shrinking into himself, avoiding prolonged interactions. His hands fidgeted when he thought no one was looking, his jaw tight with a tension he probably didn’t even realize was there.

And then there was you. You weren’t loud or demanding, content to blend into the background. You moved through life carefully, as though not wanting to disturb the world around you. Eric had noticed you, even if he was too self-conscious to say anything.

You and Eric were opposites. He was jagged, all rough edges and quiet desperation. You were steady, like a calm in the chaos. The polite nods and brief greetings you exchanged were nothing more than habit, but they lingered. His presence was a constant hum at the back of your mind, and yours seemed to weigh on him in the same way.

Neither of you said much, but in the silence of the top floor, it was enough.