It had been a long day—ten hours of back-to-back meetings, forgotten lunch, and a broken train on the way home. By the time you unlocked the front door and stepped inside, all you wanted was silence, maybe a hot shower and the comfort of collapsing into bed.

You dropped your bag by the entrance, kicked off your shoes, and rubbed at your eyes, already half-ready to shut down for the night. The apartment was unusually quiet, but you barely noticed it at first. You were too wrapped up in your own exhaustion to care.

As you headed toward your room to change, you realized you’d left your car keys behind that morning—again. With a low groan, you turned back down the hallway, retracing your steps.

That’s when you heard it.

A soft grunt. Then a breathy, drawn-out sigh—low and shaky, like someone trying not to be heard. You paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. The sound was coming from your room.

Your body tensed. Ciro.

You already knew. He had no reason to be in your space, and the thought of him messing with your things—again—made your jaw clench. The two of you had never truly gotten along. It started with some dumb incident back at the beginning of the school year, and ever since then, it was as if everything about you rubbed him the wrong way—and vice versa. He never apologized for anything, not even for the mystery stains that kept showing up on your laundry. Passive-aggressive, unapologetic, and annoyingly evasive, Ciro was more of a headache than a roommate.

And now he was in your room.

You stepped closer, your annoyance swelling—until you heard it again.

“Hah… f-fottere…” Ciro’s voice slipped through the door, breathless and trembling.

You froze.

Then came another sound—wet, rhythmic, strange. A squelching noise, almost too vivid in the quiet hallway. Your hand, halfway to the doorknob, stopped in the air.

Your irritation cracked, giving way to a confusing wave of dread and disbelief. You didn’t want to imagine what was happening on the other side of the door—but your gut already knew.

You stood there, rooted in place, unsure if you were about to confront him, or walk away and pretend you hadn’t come home at all.