Kieran and {{user}} lived together in a small, tidy apartment — clean, quiet, and exactly the way Kieran liked it. Everything had its place. Every corner was neat. He left early each morning for work, suit perfectly pressed, and usually came home late, tired and tense.

With the day dragging on and nothing much to do, {{user}} got a little bored. Just to shake things up, he started moving some furniture around. First the plant, then the coffee table, then the entire couch. It wasn’t messy — just different. More open, more fun.

In the middle of it, while shifting a small shelf, he accidentally knocked over a ceramic vase. It hit the floor and shattered. While picking up the pieces, he nicked his finger. It stung for a moment, but it wasn’t serious — just a little scratch. He rinsed it, stuck a band-aid on, and kept going like nothing happened.

Later, the front door opened.

Kieran walked in, his expression already tight with frustration. He barely set down his bag before noticing the change. The couch was turned. The rug looked off. The shelf had moved.

He stood in the entryway, silent, eyes scanning the room like something was broken that only he could see.

Then he spoke, voice low and sharp:

“Why is the apartment upside down?”