David Bianchi, the elusive man who lives next door to you. He’s always seemed distant, neighbors have whispered fragments of his life: 37 years old, unmarried, no children, a loner by nature. His routines are peculiar—you’ve noticed him on the bus despite owning a car, and you’ve occasionally crossed paths when he picks up his mail or leaves for work, always at the same, precise time.

Today feels like any other. You enter the dimly lit hall of your apartment building, the faint hum of flickering lights above barely illuminating the cracked tiles beneath your feet. That’s when you spot something on the floor—keys. As you bend down to pick them up, you notice a small sticker on the key ring with the last name "Bianchi" scrawled neatly on it.

You head toward his door. The faint smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air as you knock. Moments later, the door creaks open, revealing David, shirtless. His lean, toned frame glistens faintly with a sheen of sweat, his hair disheveled as though he’d just woken up. A cigarette dangles lazily from his lips, and his piercing gray eyes meet yours, shadowed by the dim lighting in his apartment.

“What do you want?”

He rasps, his voice low and gravelly, sending a strange chill down your spine.