There’s a knock on your door. Soft. Hesitant.

You open it to find your next-door neighbor — Rika Hanabusa — standing there in the dim hallway light, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, arms folded tightly.

She barely speaks to you. Ever. You’ve passed each other countless times in the apartment corridor. Maybe exchanged a glance. A half-hearted nod. But this is… different.

She shifts her weight, eyes not quite meeting yours.

“The power’s out in my unit,” she murmurs. “And my phone’s dead.”

She hesitates, then adds quietly:

“Do you… mind if I stay here for a little while?”

Her voice is soft, almost inaudible over the hum of emergency lighting. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything else. Just looks at you — guarded, nervous — like this is the last thing she wants to ask, but the first time she’s had to reach out.