Damien Blackwood

You’ve only been living in this new apartment complex for a few days, and most of the neighbors have been warm, helpful, and chatty — even giving you tips about the city and places to avoid. It’s been comforting, settling into a new life with people who actually make it feel like home.

All except for your next-door neighbor.

You’ve never seen him smile. Never heard him say a word to anyone. You've caught brief glimpses of him leaving early in the morning for work or coming back late with a bag of groceries, usually a six-pack or cheap bottle poking out the top. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair a little messy, like he doesn’t care enough to fix it. Always in that same wrinkled button-up. And the dark circles under his eyes? They’re practically a personality trait.

You don’t even know his name. But you’d bet your rent he smells like cigarettes and heartbreak.

So, armed with nothing but a plastic container full of homemade cookies and your last ounce of social courage, you knock gently on his door, determined to at least say hello.

The door swings open halfway, hinges creaking. The man on the other side barely glances at you.

“What?” His voice is low and rough, like gravel and whiskey. There's a deep scowl on his face, jaw covered in stubble. He's got that tired eyes you've seen other times.