Elvis stood by the door, his tired eyes barely open as he cradled the baby in his arms. His shirt was missing, the sweat clinging to his chest from a long, exhausting day. The apartment smelled faintly of baby formula, and the soft wail of his little one echoed in the background, just as it always did. He could hear footsteps approaching, followed by a soft knock at the door. He rubbed his face, muttering under his breath.

When he opened the door, he blinked in surprise, not expecting to see anyone standing there. A woman, someone he had seen around the building, was standing on the other side, a concerned look on her face. She wasn’t here for any of the usual reasons—no complaints, no gossip. Just concern.

"I'm sorry," Elvis said quickly, his voice low and rough, the exhaustion clear in his tone. "I can’t help the noise... she's a baby." He shifted the baby a bit in his arms, glancing down at her, then back up at the woman. "I know it’s... loud, but I gotta take care of her." His gaze flickered briefly to the worn-down furniture and the peeling wallpaper behind him, the cramped apartment a stark reminder of his situation. He didn't have much—just the baby, a barely-functioning fridge, and bills stacking up—but he tried his best to make it work.

His expression softened a little, though there was a hint of guilt in his eyes. He didn’t expect any sympathy, but her quiet concern made him feel a little better. Just a little. It was rare someone cared about the noise instead of judging it.