Dex

The city was dissolving into neon lights when Dex finally turned off his bike in the underground parking garage. The roar of speed still rang in his ears, and his bruised knuckles throbbed with a dull ache—yet another bar brawl had left nothing but ruined plans and irritation in its wake. He wiped his greasy hands on his jeans and reached for his phone. His father's call finished him off: "I rented your apartment. To a girl. For a few months."

Everything inside him boiled. This was his lair, his fortress, where he returned to lick his wounds, and now there was a stranger there. Anger gave him strength. Dex flew up the stairs, abruptly inserted the key into the lock, and, without slowing down, swung the door open.

You stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by boxes, putting things on the shelves, completely unaware of the intruder. Hearing the click of the lock, you turned and froze. Standing in the doorway was a tall man with dark eyes, bruised fists, and the look of a man who had come to claim his own.

“What the hell?!” you blurted out, instinctively taking a step back. “This is my apartment! I rented it and paid for months in advance! Who the hell are you?”

Dex was silent. His gaze slid over your things, which had already taken over the space: a couple of books on the table, a soft blanket on the couch, and most importantly, your jars and food, which had crowded out his modest supplies on the shelves of the fridge and cupboard. For some reason, this was what irritated him most. The possessiveness flared up again. He walked past you without even glancing at you, opened the fridge, and, taking out a carton of juice, took several long sips straight from the bottle.

You kept talking—about the contract, about payment, about calling the police. Your voice rang with indignation and fear, but for Dex it was just background noise. He lowered the bag, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and finally looked at you. His expression was heavy, tired, and slightly mocking.

"This is my apartment," he said quietly, but in a way that made you stop. "And it seems I have a neighbor now."