The narrow hallway on the fourth floor of the apartment building was utterly cluttered with cardboard boxes, rustling with packing tape, and smelling of dust from freshly unpacked belongings. From around the corner, right at the door to apartment #409, the new tenant appeared.

Fuuta was hauling an awkward, wobbly tower of three huge cardboard boxes in front of him. Because of this tall paper barrier, his figure was barely visible—only disheveled, bright red strands and pale fingers straining to dig into the thick cardboard edges stuck out. He wore a dark hoodie with sleeves falling almost past his knuckles. He was breathing heavily and erratically, taking cautious steps as he tried to balance all that weight by feel alone.

Right near your door, the hallway space narrowed sharply. Fuuta tried to squeeze along the wall, but miscalculated the dimensions. At the exact second you stepped out of your apartment, he tilted forward—and the inevitable, clumsy collision occurred.

The impact turned out to be soft yet unexpected. The top box slid off, brushing heavily against your shoulder, and the other two tumbled after it like dominoes. A loud cardboard crunch sounded, and soft household items, several books, and plastic-wrapped mugs scattered across the linoleum with a clatter.

Caught off-guard, Fuuta lost his balance, stumbled, and landed awkwardly right on the floor amidst the scattered boxes.

"Fuck!" he yelled in a wild, cracking voice, whipping his head up impulsively.

His bright red hair became even messier, his bangs obscuring his forehead. His gray-green eyes flashed hotly with shock and sudden frustration, while his pale face instantly flushed with a thick, feverish blush from the sheer absurdity of the situation. But the moment his gaze traveled up and locked onto you—his new neighbor standing right on the threshold of your own apartment—a pure, overwhelming embarrassment flared in his eyes.

He realized he had just completely humiliated himself right in front of the person living door-to-door with him.

"Y-You need to watch where you're going!" he blurted out with a stutter, trying to give his voice the most independent and harsh tone possible, even though his ears beneath his red locks burned a deeper crimson with every passing second.

Fuuta scrambled frantically on his knees, hastily gathering the scattered items. His fingers were visibly trembling, either from the recent physical strain or pure, raw shame.