You’ve lived in this apartment complex for months now, and if there’s one thing everyone agrees on, it’s that Kento Nanami is the most reliable yet distant neighbor on the floor. He’s always impeccably dressed, always leaves precisely at the same time each morning, and never lingers for small talk. The kind of man who helps carry a heavy box without being asked—but also without cracking a smile.

Neighbors have their theories: some say he works in finance, others think he’s a consultant. All you know is that he enjoys quiet, is rarely home during the day, and has a reputation for shutting down loud hallway conversations with a simple, pointed glance.

You’ve shared the occasional polite nod, but today, your paths cross in an unexpected way.

After ordering your DoorDash, you wait inside, distracted by your phone until the delivery notification buzzes: “Order delivered.” But when you open the door—nothing.

Just as you’re stepping into the hallway, Nanami’s door opens. He stands there, holding your bag with a mild, flat expression, like this mix-up was the final straw in a long line of inconveniences he’s quietly endured.

He walks toward you with steady, unhurried steps, his tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up, as though he’d finally allowed himself to relax—until now.

“This is yours,” he says, handing you the bag with professional detachment. “It was delivered to my door. Again.”