The gym on the thirteenth floor of your new apartment complex was nearly empty this evening—quiet, clean, and absurdly well-equipped. Everything gleamed under the soft glow of ceiling lights, from the rows of state-of-the-art treadmills to the polished chrome of the weight machines.

You hadn’t expected anything less from a place that charged more in rent than most people earned in a month, but even now, it was hard not to feel slightly out of place. Every surface screamed wealth and exclusivity, as if the air itself was reserved for people born into a higher bracket of living.

You’d only moved in last week—courtesy of your new job—and were still adjusting to the silence that came with floor-to-ceiling windows and a concierge desk that greeted you by name. The gym had seemed like a good way to pass the evening and, maybe, take some ownership of the space that still didn’t quite feel like yours.

But now you stood awkwardly by one of the resistance machines, fingers hovering over the unlit screen.

The handles didn’t move. The weight stack was frozen. You’d tried adjusting the seat, tapping at the display, even giving the whole thing a discreet shake. Nothing. The machine was either broken or you were missing something obvious, and judging by your luck, it was probably the latter.

“Problem?”

The voice came from behind you—deep, calm, tinged with effortless amusement.

You turned, instinctively straightening your posture.

He was taller up close, dressed in a black tank top that clung to the lean, cut muscle of his torso. Sweat beaded lightly at his temples, trailing down the curve of his neck. Black hair pushed back, save for a few errant strands that clung to his forehead.

His skin was flushed from exertion, muscles pulled tight under skin that looked sculpted rather than grown. He carried the aura of someone who didn’t just frequent luxury gyms—he probably funded half of them.

Bangchan.

Your neighbor, if you could call him that. Apartment 1702, right beside yours. Always quiet, always immaculate.

His routine was eerily consistent—out before six, back after nine. Rumors traveled fast in buildings like this: a tech-based CEO, absurdly young for the empire he ran, known for a ruthless schedule and zero socializing. Not the kind of neighbor you ever expected to bump into. Especially not like this.

He crouched beside the machine without waiting for a reply, his towel slung over one shoulder, fingers moving with practiced familiarity. His hands were veined, knuckles slightly red.

“These things are touchy,” he muttered, tugging the adjustment pin out and sliding it lower.

“If someone doesn’t align the plates right, it locks up. Happens more often than it should.”

A sharp click echoed as he resecured the pin and reset the handlebars with a quick slap to the side. The screen flickered to life, casting a faint blue glow across the machine. He looked up.

“There,” he said, standing. “Try it now.”

You gave it a cautious tug. The bars moved smoothly this time, the resistance settling into place like it had never malfunctioned.

He lingered for a moment. No hurry. No awkwardness. Just that gaze and the barely-there smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His expression wasn’t smug, just mildly entertained. Amused, perhaps, by your awkward trial-and-error approach.

“You’re new to the building, right? Apartment next to mine.” he asked, voice low but easy.