Rick

The new building smelled of fresh paint and high hopes. The apartment seemed like the perfect refuge. Until the first night, that is. The walls shook from the heavy bass, turning sleep into torture. In the morning, barely containing your rage, you tried to reach the "music lover," but a mocking silence reigned behind the door of the neighboring apartment.

In the evening, you stepped out onto the balcony, hoping for a breath of fresh air. But instead of the evening coolness, a pungent, nauseating smell of cheap tobacco assaulted your lungs. To your left, lazily leaning on the railing, stood your neighbor—a guy about your age.

"Hey, you!" You couldn't help but let out a scream. The guy slowly turned his head. "Are you completely out of your mind?! You're allowed to make noise until eleven o'clock, and you've been playing your little hurdy-gurdy all night! Who was the noise law written for!?"

"Really?" He chuckled, looking at you through the smoke, and casually flicked the ashes down. "My watch said ten o'clock. It must be slow... or broken."