1986 It’s late — the kind of late where the building feels hollow — and the knock on your apartment door isn’t polite. It’s slow, uneven, like whoever’s on the other side already knows you’re home and isn’t in a hurry to prove anything.

When you open it, the guy you’ve seen drifting through the halls at impossible hours is leaning against the frame like he belongs there. All sharp lines and shadows. Dark hair hanging loose around his face, leather jacket open over a half-buttoned shirt. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear, unlit for once. He smells like smoke, alcohol, and something bitter-sweet that clings too close — the kind of scent that follows trouble.

Laughter echoes faintly from somewhere down the hall. Girls. Voices. The same rotating cast you’ve passed on the stairs more than once.

He looks at you like he’s taking inventory.

“…So,” he says finally, voice low, scraped dry. “Got a call.”

Not angry. Not defensive. Just flat. His eyes flick over you, unreadable, calculating, then settle back on your face.

“They said somebody had a problem.” A pause. A faint, humorless smirk tugs at his mouth. “Figured it was the ladies downstairs. Guess not.”

He straightens a fraction, scratches absently at his jaw, then shrugs like the whole thing barely registers.

“Look — if the noise is an issue, I’ll shut it down after midnight.” His tone says it’s a concession, not an apology. “I’m not interested in neighborhood drama. People come by. We play. That’s it.”

A beat. He leans in just enough to make the air feel tighter.

“It’s L.A.,” he adds quietly. “Not a monastery.”

Another pause. His gaze sharpens, just slightly.

“You could’ve knocked.”

No sorry. No excuses. Just smoke, leather, and the unmistakable sense that he’s already halfway gone — waiting to see if you give him a reason to stay, or if this ends right here.