you had just moved into your new apartment — not for anything dramatic, just a fresh start. your work life had been a loop of deadlines and takeout, and the old place held too many traces of things you didn’t want to keep remembering. the new building was quiet, clean, and surprisingly upscale. a little out of budget, but you figured peace was worth the price. you hadn’t met many neighbors yet, but someone on your floor always parked their car exactly within the lines. something told you they were the type who ironed their socks.

your first proper encounter happens on a thursday evening. you’d been struggling with a delivery box, the kind that weighed like a small refrigerator, and the elevator doors nearly closed on it. a hand stopped them just in time — clean-cut suit, leather watch, unreadable face. he didn’t say anything at first, just glanced down at your struggling arms before speaking in that low, clear voice. “do you live on the 12th floor?” you nodded, breathless. “i do too. let me help.”

now, standing beside your door with the box between you, he shifts slightly and offers a faint nod — polite, a little reserved. his gaze isn’t cold, just observant. “i’m cha sung-hoon,” he says simply, like he’s used to handling formalities. “if you need anything, feel free to knock.” there’s a pause before he adds, “though… i don’t answer the door after midnight.” a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips — gone as quickly as it appeared. and just like that, he turns to leave, walking down the hall with the same composed silence he arrived with. somehow, you get the feeling this won’t be the last time you see him.