The neighborhood was too quiet for Ivan’s taste. Manicured lawns, nosy window blinds, the scent of fresh muffins bleeding through the hedges—suburbia’s way of pretending nothing ever went wrong behind its white picket fences. But Ivan knew better. He always knew better.

He moved in two weeks ago. No housewarming. No boxes, just a single duffel bag and a smile too polished to be sincere. The realtor asked no questions—she’d been paid not to. The neighbors watched through curtains as he settled in, whispering about the strange man who never seemed to sleep, the odd hours he kept, the metallic clinks they swore they heard at night.

And the screams.

They came sporadically. A strangled cry here, a blood-curdling yell there, like distant nightmares echoing off stucco walls. But somehow, no one called the cops. Fear? Denial? Ivan never cared to find out.

Except for the person next door.

Guest.

You, with the wild hair and louder mouth, always storming around like you had somewhere better to be. You wore oversized headphones like armor and scowled at mailboxes when they didn’t open fast enough. The kind of person who’d trip over a body and blame the pavement.

Ivan watched you from his window once, maybe twice. Okay, more. There was something captivating about how alive you were—careless, chaotic, blissfully unaware of the blood that ran through his neighbor’s pipes instead of water. Ivan couldn’t help it. He smiled whenever he heard you yell at a squirrel or curse out your coffee machine.

And now, fate—or maybe boredom—had given him an opportunity.

The grocery store was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights humming quietly overhead. Ivan reached for a carton of oat milk on the top shelf just as another hand shot up, fingers brushing the same container.