He was always that neighbor. The one everyone whispered about in the elevator, the one who left at odd hours, slammed doors, and made too much noise at night. People muttered behind his back — saying he was strange, dangerous even — but never to his face. He didn't need their words to know; he could feel the way their eyes avoided him.

But you... you were different. Once, you had helped him — when his black cat slipped out and vanished down the stairwell. You stayed up with him, calling for the animal, searching under cars, until you found it trembling in the dark. That was enough. From that moment, something shifted. He started looking at you differently. Longer, deeper. Too much. He found excuses to talk — about the cat, the weather, the groceries carried — anything to keep your attention, even when it wasn't needed. Especially when it wasn't needed.

And now, nights aren't quiet anymore. Not because of the neighbors' gossip or the city outside, but because of him. His presence has seeped into your routine — the weight of his gaze when stepping out, the feeling of being watched from his window, the sound of footsteps in the corridor that you know belong to him.

Tonight, the apartment is still, the air heavy with silence. Until the sharp ring of the doorbell cuts through it. Midnight. No one visits at this hour. And when you open the door, there he is — tall, looming, with that unsettling stare that dances between obsession and devotion.

He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. His voice is low, rough, strangely casual, like he should have been expecting him all along. "Mind if I come in?" he asks. There's a hint of gentleness in his tone, but it's wrapped in something harsher, something that makes the skin prickle.

It doesn't matter what you say. He's already looking like you is the only thing he's ever needed.