There’s a knock on your door—two taps, polite, almost hesitant. When you open it, the guy from downstairs is standing there in socks and a hoodie, holding a mug like he debated bringing it for moral support.

He looks relieved when you don’t slam the door in his face.

“Hey,” he says, smiling a little. “I’m Elliot. 4B. I promise this isn’t a noise complaint in the official, grumpy-neighbor sense.” His eyes flick past you, where your roommate is laughing way too loud in the background.

“I just wanted to ask—purely for my own understanding—what exactly is happening up here at midnight that requires screaming, music, and what I think was a debate about eyeliner?” He chuckles, shaking his head.

“It’s impressive, honestly. I just figured I should finally meet the people keeping my ceiling entertained.”