The taxi jolted to a stop with a screech loud enough to wake up the dead. Tapu slammed against the window, his backpack sliding off his shoulder and landing squarely on his stomach.
"Bienvenue à Paris," the driver announced, waving a hand as if he had just delivered royalty instead of a dazed young man who hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.
Tapu blinked at the sight in front of him. The building was tall, a little cracked at the edges, and carried the unmistakable air of budget living. Its beige walls had seen better days, its windows sagged with exhaustion, and the number plate at the gate—13—looked like it had been hammered in by a drunk carpenter.
"Flat No. 13," Tapu muttered, clutching his bag tightly. "Lucky for some. Unlucky for me."
The driver unloaded his suitcase with a thud and zoomed off before Tapu could even tip him. He stood there, taking in the chilly French air, trying to convince himself that this was the beginning of a dream life. After all, he had come all the way from India to pursue filmmaking, to finally start fresh.
Except, his "fresh start" looked like it needed soap, water, and possibly a demolition crew.
The Encounter with the Landlord
Dragging his suitcase up the creaky stairs, Tapu could feel every stare from the neighbors. A woman peeped from behind her curtains, a child pointed and whispered something in French, and an old man sitting on the stairs muttered, "Mauvais présage."
Tapu didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. Bad omen.
On the third floor, outside Flat No. 13, a short, balding man was waiting with arms crossed. His mustache looked like it had been hand-drawn by a permanent marker. This was Monsieur Pierre, the landlord.
"You are late," Pierre snapped, glancing at his pocket watch dramatically.
"I'm so sorry. The flight—"
"I don't want excuses. Rent on time, no noise after 10 p.m., and no… strange activities." He squinted suspiciously at Tapu, as if the boy had arrived with a suitcase full of explosives instead of clothes and Maggi noodles.
Tapu forced a smile. "Of course, Monsieur Pierre. I'm just here to… you know, live."
Pierre raised one eyebrow. "We will see." He handed over the key like a judge passing a sentence.
Tapu turned the key nervously, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
First Impressions of Flat 13
The room was… well, "small" would be an understatement. The living room barely had space for a couch and a table, the wallpaper was peeling, and the ceiling fan looked like it could decapitate someone if it spun too fast. A faint smell of garlic lingered in the air, mixed with something suspiciously close to wet socks.
"This is home now," Tapu whispered to himself, trying to sound positive.
Suddenly, a loud thud came from the kitchen. Tapu froze. Slowly, he crept toward the noise, half-expecting a rat the size of a cat.
Instead, he found… a dog.
A fluffy golden retriever sat on the kitchen floor, its tongue out, wagging its tail like it owned the place. Around it were scattered baguette crumbs, the remains of what used to be a loaf of bread.
Tapu blinked. "Uh… who are you?"
The dog barked once, proudly.
A note was stuck to the fridge. In messy handwriting, it read:
"Take care of him. His name is Baguette. Don't ask questions. – Alina"
Tapu's jaw dropped. "Alina? Who the hell is Claire? And why do I have her dog?"
Baguette wagged harder, clearly deciding that Tapu was now his human.
"No, no, no… I can't take care of a dog. I don't even take care of myself! I once burnt Maggi!"
The dog barked again, as if mocking him.
A Knock at the Door
Before Tapu could process the new canine roommate, a knock echoed through the flat. He hesitated, then opened it to find a girl standing there, holding a basket of croissants.
She had chestnut-brown hair tied into a messy bun, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, and an expression that mixed curiosity with mild irritation.
"Hi," she said in fluent English. "You must be the new tenant. I'm Alina. Flat No. 12."
Tapu straightened his shirt nervously. "Oh, hi! I'm Tapu. Just moved in."
Alina glanced at Baguette, who was now licking Tapu's shoes. "Ah, I see you've met the real owner of Flat 13."
Tapu frowned. "Wait… this dog doesn't even belong to me?"
Alina shrugged. "No one knows exactly who he belongs to. Sometimes he's with Claire from Flat 11, sometimes he's here. But he always ends up in your apartment. Don't fight it."
"Don't fight it? He eats bread! Expensive French bread!"
Alina giggled. "Welcome to Paris." She handed him a croissant. "You'll need this. Moving in here is like signing up for a circus."
Tapu stared at her, confused and slightly captivated. She seemed nice… but also like she knew something he didn't.
Chaos Unleashed
That night, Tapu tried to sleep. But Flat 13 had other plans.
First, the water pipe in the bathroom burst, spraying him like a free fountain at Disneyland. He spent an hour mopping, only to realize the mop itself was broken.
Then, as he finally lay on the couch, Baguette jumped on him, tail wagging furiously, and drooled all over his face.
"Why me?!" Tapu groaned, wiping his face with the same shirt he was supposed to wear tomorrow.
At 3 a.m., there was a loud crash from the neighbor's apartment, followed by laughter, music, and what sounded like a goat. Yes, a goat.
Tapu sat up in disbelief. "Is this… normal?"
He opened his door, peeked into the hallway, and saw Alina struggling to carry a huge pile of laundry while yelling at someone inside her flat. Behind her, two guys were trying to set up a karaoke machine, and a random stranger was walking down the hallway wearing only a towel.
Tapu shut the door immediately. "Nope. Not my problem. Not today."
But deep down, he knew. This was his new world. Flat No. 13 wasn't just an apartment—it was a madhouse.
And he was officially part of it.
End of Chapter 1