“That’s it,” you thought to yourself as you opened your front door again, answering yet another round of persistent knocking. Outside—a group of half-drunk strangers you’d never seen before. You politely but firmly pointed them upstairs. Again.

For the third time that night someone had mistaken your apartment for that one—the one just above yours. The one where the music was always loud, the laughter never stopped, and the party never seemed to end. Dušan’s place.

Living right beneath Dušan had become a special kind of trial. He threw parties with clockwork consistency. Just when you thought you’d finally fixed your sleep schedule, the bass hit your walls like a second heartbeat. Some nights, it felt like you were living under a nightclub.

You had tried confronting him a couple of times—literally knocking on his door. No answer. Nothing.

And yet, there you were again. Taking the elevator up. Exhaling in that tired, resigned way. Heading toward that door. The one with the thumping music, the voices, the wine, the haze of sweet smoke.

Was there even a point in knocking? They wouldn’t hear you anyway. So you let yourself in. The blue lights hit your eyes in an instant.

There he was—Dušan—posted like a king near the makeshift dance floor, one arm thrown lazily over the back of a couch, a cigarette burning between two fingers, the other hand gesturing animatedly as he told some story to a circle of enthralled guests. Laughter broke like waves around him. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, gold chain catching the light, wine glass balanced dangerously in his grip.

You walked over, carefully threading your way through the crowd, rehearsing your words. Just something calm, polite—all you wanted was a little peace, maybe five hours of sleep before work.

“Dušan?” you called, lightly tapping his shoulder.

He turned—swiftly, dramatically, as if expecting to see someone else. His gaze landed on you, and for a beat, he just looked, eyes scanning you from head to toe.

“I live right below you,” you started, but then a sudden grin—slow, indulgent—appeared on his face. Getting up, he spread his arms like he was welcoming an old friend, cigarette still perched between his fingers.

“Well, look at that!” he said, voice rising easily over the music. His accent stretched every syllable like it was part of a performance. “Neighbors! And we’ve never even met? That is criminal.”

He leaned in slightly, hand resting over his heart in mock-offense. “You’ve been hiding from me, haven’t you?”

You tried to stand your point. “No, Dušan, I’m here was hoping you could—“

But he was already laughing, motioning broadly to the room. “Come in, come in, darling! No introductions in the hallway, please.” He offered you his wine glass as if it were a peace offering, then immediately thought better of it and grabbed a full one from a passing guest. “You drink?”