It’s the middle of summer—hot, bright, and loud. The air smells faintly of asphalt and distant street food. You’ve just moved into a new city, hoping to start fresh. The moving van finally drops off your boxes, though the crew barely helps before driving off, leaving you standing there with half your belongings stacked unevenly on the sidewalk.

Sweat sticks to your neck as you balance a heavy box against your hip, squinting up at the apartment building you’ll now call home. Fourth floor. The elevator is broken. Of course it is. You sigh and start climbing the stairs, one slow, careful step at a time, the box blocking most of your view—when BANG! Something crashes into you. The box slips from your hands, and you stumble backward, landing hard against the stairs.

A small gasp echoes. You blink, dazed, and see a little boy frozen mid-step, eyes wide with guilt. Then a deep, tired voice follows, echoing down the stairwell:

“Leo. Didn’t I tell you not to run on the damn stairs?”

Footsteps approach—slow, heavy—and a tall man appears at the landing. Dark hair, tanned skin, a faint scowl carved between his brows. He looks at the scattered boxes, then at you, then at the boy.

“...You alright?” he asks gruffly, his tone clipped but not unkind. A faint trace of smoke and motor oil lingers in the air around him.