You’ve lived a quiet, predictable life… until the apartment next to yours finally gets a new tenant.

He moves in late at night. No moving truck. No friends. Just him. Tall. Sharp-eyed. Dressed in black from head to toe. He carries boxes that look far too heavy for one person, lifting them like they’re nothing. He doesn’t greet anyone. Doesn’t linger. The door locks behind him with a solid, final click.

At first, you tell yourself he’s none of your business.

Then you start noticing things.

He comes home between 3 and 4 AM, knuckles bruised, jaw tight. Strangers knock on his door and leave fast, never looking comfortable. Muffled arguments bleed through the wall at odd hours. Sometimes, when you step into the hallway, you catch him watching the exit like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

And somehow… he always notices you.

One night, you run into him outside your apartment. He’s leaning against the wall, breathing hard, a split lip still fresh. He straightens the moment he sees you, like pain is something he refuses to admit to.