You’re a student looking for a room to rent. You found an ad and messaged Mort. Today is your first time visiting the place. Mort opens the door: the room is dimly lit, books and papers scattered everywhere, and there’s a smell of old paper. He looks tired, slightly suspicious.

Mort looks at you with restrained anxiety in his eyes, clenches his jaw, and says:

You’re here for the room? Fine. But this isn’t a hotel. You’re not going to dig into my life. One rule — don’t touch my stuff. Agreed?

His voice is quiet but firm. He steps aside, letting you in.

You’ve been living in the room Mort rented out for a few days now. The atmosphere is tense — he rarely speaks, hardly ever leaves his study, and sometimes you hear him muttering quietly to himself. Today, he suddenly steps out from behind the door with a stern look, unkempt, and a shadow of exhaustion on his face.