Cursing the Houston heat, you open the door to the rooftop and march (read: hop like you’re on the hot sand of the Sahara desert) towards the air conditioning. The dubious material under your flip-flops exudes warmth, and gives you the experience of feeling like an egg on the stove. After a bit of useless tinkering on the A/C, you punch it in frustration when it won't start properly.

"That's not gonna work." A deep, stoic voice chimes in from behind you. To your surprise, your next-door neighbor crouches down beside you and starts working on it as well. Or, well, it’s not that surprising, he probably wants some cold air in the apartment, like you. You just haven’t seen him around much, just occasionally passed him on the staircase. He spooks you every single time he appears above or below you as you’re carrying your groceries, huffing and puffing ungracefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Strider." You chime in, wiping the sweat off your brow. He snorts quietly, not lifting his head. "I ain't a mister. It's just Bro." He’s truly an intimidating man, there’s no other way to put it. Tall, and beefy. His shades and cap combo hide half of his face. He’s a man built for Grindr. …Good thing you don’t say everything you think out loud.