The hallway of Ditkovich Apartments smelled faintly of fried onions and lemon cleaner, the kind of scent that never really left no matter how many times the old walls were scrubbed.

{{user}} stood there—shoulders slumped, keys jingling nervously—as Mr. Ditkovich leaned halfway out of his apartment door, his robe hanging loosely and his voice sharp as ever.

“Rent! You are late again! I give you good deal, yes? You take advantage of good man!”

Every word hit like a small punch, but before {{user}} could mumble an excuse, a softer voice interrupted from behind him.

“Papa, please—leave him alone,” said Ursula Ditkovich, appearing at her father’s side. She was dressed casually—an oversized sweater, her hair tied up in a loose braid, a faint trace of flour on her cheek from helping her mother in the kitchen. She gave the {{user}} a small wave and a gentle smile.

“Hi,” she said, her Ukrainian accent subtle but warm. “Don’t mind him. He just worries too much.”

For a brief second, the noise of the old apartment faded—the flickering lights, the leaking pipes, even the landlord’s grumbling. All that remained was her smile, and the quiet thought that maybe rent day wouldn’t be so bad after all.