1:37 AM. Leo Chen slammed his laptop shut. In the sudden silence, his brain felt like it had blue-screened. His neck ached, and his eyes were sandpaper-dry.
He was starving. His stomach growled, empty and loud.
He shuffled down the stairs in his worn-out flip-flops. The sound-activated lights in this dump were finicky, requiring a solid stomp to wake up. He couldn't be bothered, descending in the dark.
Halfway down, he froze.
What was that sound?
A faint, choked hiccup, like a leaky tire or a stepped-on cat's tail, drifted up from the dark turn of the staircase below. Crying. Muffled, hitching sobs that sounded utterly miserable.
Leo immediately wanted to turn back. Trouble. He hated scenes like this. But his empty stomach growled again, his mind conjuring the image of hot convenience store oden.
Gritting his teeth, he cleared his throat loudly and stomped his foot on the concrete step.
Thud.
The yellowish bulb overhead flickered reluctantly to life, casting a weak pool of light.
Under the light, a dark shape flinched and curled tighter, like a startled hedgehog. It was a person in a bulky black hoodie, hood up, curled on the steps, face hidden in their knees. A massive backpack, stuffed to bursting, sat beside them, almost as big as they were.
Leo noticed the shoes. Stark white sneakers, but a glaring scuff of black grime marred the right one. He'd seen these shoes in the hallway earlier, thinking the new neighbor was pretty meticulous about keeping them clean.
"Hey," his voice came out rough, like three-day-old trash, "You… alright?"
The "hedgehog" jerked, head snapping up.
Leo paused. It was the new girl who'd moved in across the hall. Vicky, or something? She'd given some speech as a freshman representative. Pretty, in a way that made his roommate, Lao Liu, swear he'd chase after her.
But now her face was a mess. Tear-streaked, with black smudges—probably ruined makeup—around her eyes. Her eyes were wide, full of panic and the acute embarrassment of being caught, her face flushing a deep, instant red all the way to her ears.
"S-sorry!" she stammered, swiping at her face with the back of her hand, only making it worse. She tried to stand, probably leg-numb from sitting, wobbled, and slapped a hand on the ground to steady herself. "I'm going! I'm going!"
Her voice was hoarse, thick with tears.
She fumbled for the giant backpack, lurched forward, almost running to her door. Her keys jangled violently in her shaking hands, missing the lock several times before she finally got it.
Click.
The door opened a crack, and she slipped inside like an eel, the door snapping shut behind her. It was over in a blur.
The hallway was suddenly empty except for Leo and the flickering damn light. The air held a faint, cloying sweetness—cheap strawberry scent, clashing brutally with her earlier distress.
Leo shrugged and continued downstairs.
"Tch. Ugly crier," he muttered under his breath.
***
The next day, close to noon, Leo woke up desperate for the bathroom. On his way back, he found a paper bag hanging from his doorknob.
Not an ad. The bag had the logo of a decent bakery. Inside, a clear plastic container held a slice of green cake. A small note was tucked beside it, handwriting neat and blocky, like a printer's:
«Sorry for last night. A small gesture. - Vicky.»
Leo tore the box open and shoved the cake into his mouth in two bites. It was so damn sweet, the matcha powder catching in his throat. He had to wash it down with half a glass of cold water.
That afternoon, heading out for a delivery, he ran into Vicky in the stairwell. She was carrying thick textbooks, that huge backpack on her shoulders, head down as she climbed. She'd changed into light-colored clothes, her hair slicked back into a neat high ponytail, her face clean but pale, her lips almost white.
Seeing Leo, she stiffened, eyes darting away, her steps faltering.
"The cake," Leo jerked his chin, "Ate it. Thanks."
"Mm." Her voice was mosquito-like, barely audible. "You're welcome."
She pressed herself against the opposite wall, speeding up to get ahead of him, pulling out her keys. Her hands seemed shaky again, the key fighting with the lock.
Watching her look like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole, Leo felt a sudden, unexpected urge to laugh.
"Hey," he said abruptly, "Last night you…"
Vicky spun around as if electrocuted, her words tumbling out fast, almost tripping over themselves. "I'm fine! Really! Nothing happened! Thanks for your concern!"
With that, she yanked the door open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut with a force that shook the frame.
Leo jerked his head back from the reverberating slam.
"Whoa," he laughed, facing the sealed door. "Feisty."
***
That night, Leo was in the middle of an intense game, headphones on, trash-talking his opponents. The headphones weren't great, and he faintly heard a thud from next door, like a chair tipping over. Then a short, sharp grunt, cut off abruptly.
Silence.
He frowned, pulling one headphone down, listening.
Dead quiet.
He waited a minute, maybe two. Nothing. It was too quiet. Unnaturally so. He thought of her breakdown last night, her skittishness during the day.
He tossed his headphones aside, walked to the shared wall, and knocked on it with his knuckles, firm but not pounding.
"Hey? Next door?" he called toward the wall. "You alive? Make a sound."
No response.
He knocked again, harder. "Vicky? You hear me?"
A faint rustling sound came from the other side, then an incredibly weak voice, breathy and broken: "I'm… fine…"
It sounded weaker than the meow of the stray cat downstairs.
"Open the door!" Leo felt a spike of irritation. "You don't sound fine! Did you fall? Need an ambulance?"
"No!" The voice from inside suddenly sharpened, shrill and panicked, almost frantic. "Don't call! Please… just leave me alone! Go away! Go away!"
Leo was taken aback by the sudden scream. Good intentions met with hostility.
"Damn it," he swore under his breath, his own temper flaring. "Fine! Whatever! Don't come crying to me if you're hurt!"
He kicked the base of the wall and went back to his computer. His character in the game was long dead. He ran a hand through his hair irritably and lit a cigarette.
Halfway through the smoke, he got up anyway, found a sticky note, scrawled a string of numbers on it, ripped it off, and walked to her door. He slapped the note onto her doorframe.
"My number!" he yelled at the door, annoyed. "Call if you're actually dying!"
Silence from within.
Leo went back inside and slammed his door shut.
After finishing the cigarette, the weird, restless irritation still hadn't left him. He stared at the wall, as if he could see through it.
This new neighbor… was she mentally ill?
On the other side of the wall.
Vicky lay collapsed on the floor, fingers digging into the cold wooden boards, knuckles white. Her stomach churned, a vortex of razor blades shredding her from the inside. Cold sweat soaked through her clothes. Black spots danced in her vision.
She hooked a finger around her fallen phone, dragging it closer.
The screen lit up. Its cold, white glare illuminated her sweaty, pale face.
A text from her manager, Park Ji-hoon, glowed on the screen like a venomous snake:
«+0.3kg. Lose it before recording. Don't make this difficult.»
Tears welled up again—not from sadness, but pure, gutting despair. Her mouth opened. No sound came out. Only her shoulders shook, a violent, silent tremor.
She couldn't make a sound. Absolutely not. The guy next door wasn't asleep.
She had to endure it. She had to.
In the darkness, the phone's glow lit her silently contorted face and the endless, silent tears cutting tracks through the sweat.