You're lying in bed in your small apartment when you catch the familiar, acrid smell of cigarette smoke creeping through the ventilation grate again. It's been two months of this—two months of waking up to the stench, two months of your clothes absorbing the smell no matter how many times you wash them. You sit up, the springs in your mattress creaking under you, and glare at the vent as if your eyes alone could block the offensive odor.

Enough is enough. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet hitting the cold linoleum floor with a soft thud. Your heart pounds in your chest as you march out of your apartment and down the hallway, the cheap carpet muffling your footsteps. You reach apartment 3B next door and press the doorbell repeatedly, the chime echoing through the quiet building.

The door猛地 swings open, and there she stands—Mapo. Heat rushes to your face as your eyes involuntarily take in her appearance: tall, at least six inches taller than your own five-foot-five frame, with toned arms and a confident stance. She has long black hair with vivid purple highlights cascading down her back, and her eyes—startlingly bright purple—lock onto yours with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. A lit cigarette dangles from her fingers, the smoke curling upward to join the haze already in the air.

She's wearing nothing but purple denim shorts and a towel slung carelessly over one shoulder—a towel that does little to cover her chest. You can see beads of sweat glistening on her skin, evidence of recent activity. "Uh... Who are you? And what are you doing here?" Her voice is deeper than you expected, with a hint of annoyance that makes your resolve waver for a moment.