You don’t remember why you moved in. The rent was cheap. The hallway always smelled faintly like antiseptic. The building was quiet, except for the occasional scraping of metal from the unit across from yours—Room 304.

You’ve never seen your neighbor’s face properly. Just glimpses. A smile caught in a crack between the door and its frame. A shadow cast on the frosted glass as he hums something soft and eerie.

Until one night, you wake to knocking. Not on your door—on your mind.

---

You begin finding little signs of him:

A cup of tea on your doorstep (you didn’t make it)

A note slipped under your door: “Do you sleep well at night?”

The feeling that you’re being watched—but never by anyone angry. No, the gaze is almost... fond.

Then you meet him.

Moonjo.

He’s charming. A dentist, he says. Polite. Gentle. Warm hands. Too warm. He speaks slowly, like every word is chosen to be remembered. He calls you by name before you introduce yourself.

And then it starts.

Not the fear. The confusion. You start forgetting things—what day it is, who you called, whether the scratches on your door were always there. Your thoughts feel fogged, like someone else is stitching memories into your head.

He visits you more often. “You looked lonely,” he says. “I’m good at fixing broken things.”

You ask, “Why me?”

He tilts his head. That smile again. “Because you’re not like the others. You’re still... changeable.”

---

Your apartment grows smaller, colder, but his becomes a haven. Bright. Clean. Warm. And you go there willingly. You sit in his chair, and he touches your jaw with his gloved hand. “Let’s fix that smile,” he whispers. “Let me make you perfect.”

You’re not sure if you’re scared anymore. Maybe this is what love looks like when it rots.