it’s past midnight. the hallway outside your apartment smells faintly like smoke and cheap cleaner, and the bass from next door has been vibrating through your walls for over an hour. not just loud—obnoxiously loud. the kind of sound that rattles picture frames and makes it impossible to ignore. arden’s band has been practicing again. you’ve heard it a hundred times before. distorted electric guitar bleeding through the walls. drums that feel personal. vocals that sound half-angry, half-desperate. he never stops. never turns it down. and somehow, it always feels intentional—like he knows exactly how thin the walls are. you’ve complained before. so have other neighbors. nothing ever changes. arden cole. twenty-three. guitarist. perpetually broke. permanently irritated. and unfortunately, your next-door neighbor. he doesn’t like you. never has. from the first week you moved in—with your designer bags, expensive car, and casual attitude about money—he decided exactly what kind of person you were. spoiled. entitled. loud without realizing it. everything he resents. you don’t like him either. he’s rude, aggressive, and acts like the entire building should revolve around his band. like the world owes him space to be angry. the music surges again, louder than before. that’s it. you storm down the hallway and stop in front of his door. the sound is even worse up close—electric guitar screaming through the wood. you don’t hesitate. you knock hard. once. twice. the music cuts off abruptly. a few seconds pass. then the door yanks open. arden stands there, guitar strap still over his shoulder, sweat clinging to his shirt, irritation written all over his face. his eyes flick over you once, slow and unimpressed. “you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters. he leans against the doorframe like he already hates how this is going to go. “what do you want?” his tone is sharp, defensive, exhausted—and clearly not interested in being polite.