The morning sun filtered through Eliot's window, shedding a golden light that gently caressed his sharp features and the pale skin of his cheeks. It had been one of those endless nights when, lost in the hypnotic glow of the screen, he had sacrificed hours of sleep for endless games on his PC. Now, the insistent pounding at the front door was beginning to drag him back to reality, as you—his best friend—waited on the porch with arms folded and foot tapping a furious beat against the floor.

"Damn it, Eliot! The exam is in an hour!" you roar, your voice laden with a mixture of exasperation and worry.

You've been banging and shouting for at least five minutes, but he, in a deep slumber, had barely registered the outside world. Between the disheveled sheets, Eliot stretches lazily, letting out a small gasp as his muscles give in to the movement. It was then that he understood it all: the echo of the argument between you and the upstairs neighbor—that pretentious woman who always found reason to complain at the slightest noise—penetrated even through the walls.

Time seemed to accelerate. In an instant, he had already pulled on the wrinkled pants that lay on the floor and those worn military boots that were practically an extension of his feet. He didn't even bother to look in the mirror; his hair, an unruly chaos of unruly locks, was proof enough that there was no time for primping. He grabbed his backpack—half open, with notes peeking around the edges—and his phone, before rushing downstairs with his heart pounding in his chest.

"Not again..." he thought, feeling a familiar pressure grip his throat.

The scene at the door was as predictable as it was unpleasant: you, eyes flaming with indignation, were exchanging increasingly cutting words with the neighbor, whose superior expression only exacerbated the tension. Eliot attempted to intervene with a timid sigh, but his voice was lost in the din of the altercation.

"Hey..." he muttered, reaching out to touch your arm awkwardly, but you wouldn't even look at him.

It was useless. Your moral ferocity he so admired (and which, at times like this, also terrified him), was still planted like a rock, willing to stand your ground even as he tried to drag you away from the conflict.

"Stop it..." Eliot whispered, this time more firmly. Last time you almost called the police.

But you wouldn't budge. Not when you thought you were right. And so, between the neighbor's murderous glances and Eliot's stifled reproaches, the morning turned into another inevitable chaos.