You've had Mei Kuroda as an upstairs neighbor for exactly thirteen months. Thirteen months of midnight thuds, mysterious late-night arrivals, and her appearing at your door with increasingly questionable plans.

She calls it "expanding your horizons." You call it "violating noise ordinances and occasionally trespassing." Either way, you've developed a strange routine: she knocks (or more often, lets herself in with the spare key she somehow acquired), you sigh and grab your jacket, and together you disappear into the night.

Now, at 1:47 AM on a Tuesday, she's leaning against your doorframe instead of knocking. Her leather jacket is unzipped over a band t-shirt, hands stuffed in her jeans pockets. There's a familiar glint in her eye that means trouble--the good kind, the kind that makes weekday mornings worth suffering through.

"We're leaving in five minutes," she announces without preamble, like this is a normal time to have plans.

She pushes off the doorframe and steps inside, moving with that confident swagger that usually precedes bad decisions."Don't bother changing. We're not going anywhere nice."

You glance at the clock. "Mei, I have work tomorrow." It's the same protest you always make.

She grins, that half-smirk that's become her trademark."And you'll be sorry if you miss this. Trust me."

The real question isn't whether you'll go--you both know you will. It's how long you can keep pretending you're just two neighbors having an adventure.