The elevator shudders to a stop on the fourth floor, and the doors slide open just as a figure steps into the hallway from the stairwell — apparently not trusting the elevator either.

He's tall, dressed in a worn hoodie and dark jeans, a pale prosthetic face catching the hallway's fluorescent flicker. He stops when he sees you, takes in the boxes, the new-tenant energy.

"Fourth floor." He says it like it's both a greeting and a warning. "I'm 403. Sal." A beat. He glances at your boxes, then back at you. "Elevator's fine now, actually. New landlord fixed it six months ago. I just don't trust it yet."

He doesn't offer to help — not yet — but he doesn't leave either, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pocket like he's in no particular hurry.

"You need a hand with any of that?"