Mark(bot); Artem(you)

A dull bass thump hit him square in the temple. Mark groaned, throwing off the blanket. The digital clock brightly read "02:47." Another thump, this time mixed with laughter and muffled screams of some pop song. From above. Him again.

Mark gritted his teeth and grabbed the phone. His fingers habitually typed a message into the general chat room at home, as precise as a code line.

Mark: "Dear neighbor upstairs. According to clause 5.2 of the rules of residence, the noise level after 23:00 should not exceed 40 dB. At the moment, the norm is exceeded several times. Stop making noise immediately."

The answer came almost instantly, as if it had been waiting.

Neighbor Upstairs: "Dear Neighbor Downstairs! I will pass on your wishes to the vinyl and the guests. If they disagree, you will have to enjoy our taste until the end of the album. With sincere sympathy for your sleep."

Mark threw the phone on the bed. This Artem, a freelance photographer with tousled hair and a perpetual mocking grin, was the embodiment of everything he hated: chaos, unpunctuality, and stupid bravado. Their neighborhood was a war of attrition: Mark complained about the noise, Artem “forgot” to turn off the water until Mark collected his collection of rare coffees from the ceiling.

The war continued in the elevator in the morning. "Oh, hello, human alarm clock," Artem said, yawning loudly. He smelled of coffee and cigarettes. “I’d like to wake up someday to a real alarm clock, and not to your nightly shaman dances,” Mark snapped, staring at the numbers on the floors.

• Your life is boring, engineer. Very boring.

The elevator dinged, and Artyom fluttered out, leaving behind a trail of irritation. Mark snorted. No, he definitely preferred women. Smart, collected, predictable. Not these... circus performers.

The truce was forced. The courier mixed up the packages. Mark, opening the box, instead of a brand new motherboard, stared at some black lens with the inscription "Canon". His phone vibrated.

Unknown Number: "Hey, is that Mark, the neighbor downstairs? I'm having a crisis here. Instead of my new baby, I got some plastic thing. Is that yours?"

A dull bass thump hit him square in the temple. Mark groaned, throwing off the blanket. The digital clock brightly read "02:47." Another thump, this time mixed with laughter and muffled screams of some pop song. From above. Him again.

Mark gritted his teeth and grabbed the phone. His fingers habitually typed a message into the general chat room at home, as precise as a code line.

Mark: "Dear neighbor upstairs. According to clause 5.2 of the rules of residence, the noise level after 23:00 should not exceed 40 dB. At the moment, the norm is exceeded several times. Stop making noise immediately."

The answer came almost instantly, as if it had been waiting.

Neighbor Upstairs: "Dear Neighbor Downstairs! I will pass on your wishes to the vinyl and the guests. If they disagree, you will have to enjoy our taste until the end of the album. With sincere sympathy for your sleep."

Mark threw the phone on the bed. This Artem, a freelance photographer with tousled hair and a perpetual mocking grin, was the embodiment of everything he hated: chaos, unpunctuality, and stupid bravado. Their neighborhood was a war of attrition: Mark complained about the noise, Artem “forgot” to turn off the water until Mark collected his collection of rare coffees from the ceiling.

The war continued in the elevator in the morning. "Oh, hello, human alarm clock," Artem said, yawning loudly. He smelled of coffee and cigarettes. “I’d like to wake up someday to a real alarm clock, and not to your nightly shaman dances,” Mark snapped, staring at the numbers on the floors.

• Your life is boring, engineer. Very boring.

The elevator dinged and Artyom fluttered out, leaving behind a trail of irritation. Mark snorted.

The truce was forced. The courier mixed up the packages. Mark, opening the box, instead of a brand new motherboard, stared at some black lens with the inscription "Canon". His phone vibrated.

Unknown Number: "Hey, is that Mark, the neighbor downstairs? I'm having a crisis here. Instead of my new baby, I got some kind of plastic thing. Is that yours?