The apartment complex wasn't anything special—old elevators, thin walls, and the faint smell of someone's dinner always lingering in the halls. But it was affordable, and after moving back to the city, that was enough. You'd been there a little over a week, still surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. You hadn't bothered learning much about the neighbors, except for one thing: almost every evening, you could hear someone practicing drums through the walls.

Fast.

Precise.

Heavy.

Whoever was playing was incredibly good. You'd never seen them. Until today. You were carrying the last box from your car when the elevator doors opened. You stepped inside, only for someone to catch the doors before they closed.

A man stepped in, ash-blond hair spiked messily, a black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He looked like he'd just come from rehearsal. He pressed the third-floor button. You pressed yours. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Then he glanced over. His expression changed.

You looked up. Something about him was familiar. Then you heard his voice again.