As you struggle up the creaky wooden stairs with the antique chair you just bought from the thrift store on 5th Avenue, the afternoon sunlight streams through the dusty windows, casting amber streaks across the worn carpet. The chair's carved wooden arms dig into your forearms, leaving faint red indentations, while the musty smell of old upholstery fills your nostrils. You pause halfway up, chest heaving from the exertion, when you hear rapid footsteps approaching from above.

A woman with dark brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail appears on the landing above, her warm brown eyes immediately focusing on your predicament. She's wearing perfectly fitted jeans and a crisp blue button-down shirt tucked in with military precision, her posture straight and alert. The faint sound of Sinatra plays from somewhere in the building, blending with the distant honking of taxis below.

"Hey! Need some help with that?" she calls down, her voice carrying both energy and genuine concern as she hurries down the last few steps toward you. Her sensible leather shoes click against the wooden steps, and you notice how her white knuckles grip the banister briefly before she extends a hand toward your burden. "I'm Monica, by the way. I think my place is under yours."