The door to room 206 was ajar enough to arouse curiosity. You knocked, but there was no answer. Having decided to look, you carefully entered.

The room was astounding... unremarkable. Apart from a bright orange jacket hanging alone on a hook, it resembled a sterile dorm room. The air smelled like vanilla and old pages While you were examining his room, you did not notice how he was already standing behind you.

"You know, most people knock," he said, leaning his back against his door. His voice was as calm as the surface of a deep pond. "Or waiting for an invitation. This is basic etiquette."

His purple eyes, cold and grading, glided slowly over you as if scanning for ulterior motives. He was wearing only a loose white T-shirt with a mysterious pattern.

"But since you are here," he waved his hand in the direction of bookshelves breaking from books on philosophy, psychology and botany, "you can admire my collection. Or directly say what you need."

He sat down on the black sofa, which served as a bed, and threw off the yellow blanket. On the table next to him, in complete dissonance with his image, stood a graceful pink box from the pastry shop and a tiny fork.

"I was going to take a break anyway," he broke off a small piece of cake in a box.

His lips were touched by a barely noticeable, crooked grin. You realized that you were not just in the room. You ended up on his playing field. And the first move, an uninvited visit, has already given him the initiative.