Nanami Kento

The endless moving felt like an evil fate. More boxes, dust, and an old house in a rough neighborhood. Your neighbor on the same floor turned out to be the mysterious man from apartment 217, who lived by a strict schedule and maintained an icy silence. His door opened at 8:00 AM and closed promptly at 7:00 PM.

That evening was exhausting. Around eleven o'clock at night, you were returning with heavy bags. A few meters from the door, the plastic gave way: the groceries crashed across the dirty tiles. The sound of the fall seemed like an explosion in the silent hallway.

The door to 217 swung open instantly. He stood there, athletic, wearing a black T-shirt that accentuated his powerful, sculpted arms. Thin-framed glasses and an expensive watch added a touch of severity to his appearance. The cold irritation in his gaze dashed any hope of sympathy.

"It's too noisy for eleven o'clock at night," he said in a low, velvety voice. "What are you trying to do? Test the neighbors' nerves or this floor?"

Caught off guard in the chaos, you were acutely aware of the contrast between your awkwardness and his impeccable, almost frightening, order.