The building wasn’t the worst you’d seen, but it wasn’t great either. The kind of place that had probably been nice once—before time and neglect had worn it down to its bones. The stairwell smelled like damp concrete, cigarette smoke, and something fried from a few doors down. Flickering overhead lights buzzed like dying flies, casting long shadows against scuffed walls.

Third floor. End of the hall.

You double-checked the text from your mutual friend. Eric. Apartment 3C. He needs a roommate, you need a place. Don’t let him scare you off. He’s harmless.

That last part felt like a warning.

You’d never met him, only heard of him. A mechanic, a street racer. And now? Now you were about to show up at his door unannounced, a stranger with nowhere else to go.

The hallway stretched quiet. You swallowed, steeled yourself, and lifted your hand—

Then knocked.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, heavy footsteps. A lock clicking. The door swung open, and—oh. He was taller than you expected. Broad-shouldered, built like he belonged anywhere but here. Black hair, uneven from a home cut, stuck up at the top. Tattoos bled from his sleeves, ink winding up his throat, cutting sharp against pale skin. And his eyes—dark, piercing, locked onto you with a kind of frozen, barely functioning confusion.

His lips parted, then pressed shut again. His brows pulled together.

Processing.

"...Who the fuck are you?" His voice came rough, like he hadn’t used it in hours. He blinked once, twice. Then, completely flat,

Something in his brain shorted out. You're a woman. His gaze went slightly unfocused, mouth parting like a system error had just fried whatever was left of his ability to compute. His hand was still gripping the door handle, knuckles faintly tense, like he hadn’t even registered that he was still holding it.