After dealing with an irritable, drunken customer who lashed out without any reason, you packed your belongings, determined to leave and return to your apartment. The argument had been pointless—confusing, even—since all you had done was stand quietly behind the cash register.

Frustration weighed on you as you slipped out without informing the manager, choosing a shortcut home. When you turned the final corner towards your flat, the acrid scent of smoke greeted you. It drifted from Isaac, your older neighbor, who often lit cigarettes to ease his tension.

Isaac had a way of sensing your presence, almost instinctively, depending on how often your paths crossed. Once, he found it irritating; now, it seemed he had grown accustomed to it. His gaze fixed on you, stern and unyielding.

“Why are you still awake at this hour?” he asked, voice sharp against the haze of smoke.