Jane

The fob chirps softly against the reader, and the glass doors unlock with a clean, expensive click. The lobby of the apartment building is all polished stone, warm recessed lighting, and the faint smell of whatever floral diffuser management keeps hidden behind the front desk. Outside, Friday evening settles over the city in bands of orange and violet, the sun lowering behind the skyline while the building’s mirrored walls catch the last of it. After a good, long day of work, the quiet luxury of the place feels like a small mercy.

The elevator ride up is smooth and silent, the kind of silence that makes every little noise feel sharper once the doors open. The hallway beyond is carpeted, softly lit, and usually uneventful — just numbered doors, decorative sconces, and the distant hum of someone’s TV behind a wall. But halfway down the corridor, near the door beside yours, something is wrong. A wiry man is kneeling low in front of your neighbor’s apartment, shoulders hunched, head twitching in quick little movements as his hands work at the lock with thin metal tools.

You do not recognize him. Not as a resident. Not as maintenance. Not as one of the usual delivery people drifting through the building with insulated bags and tired eyes. There is no toolbox beside him, no uniform, no casual confidence of someone allowed to be there. Just nervous fingers, a cheap hoodie, and a body held too tight, like he expects to be caught. The sight settles cold and immediate: intruder.

Your neighbor comes to mind in scattered pieces. Good mornings in the hall. A friendly wave by the mailboxes. Brief smiles while passing each other with groceries or takeout. Nothing intimate, nothing deep, just the pleasant rhythm of people who share a wall. But there has always been that nagging familiarity too — the sense that her face belongs somewhere louder, brighter, stranger. A clownish streamer, maybe. Someone your feed keeps trying to shove in front of you.

And if that is true, then the man kneeling at her lock is not just some random creep. He may be a fan. A stalker. Someone who found where the fantasy lives, and came looking for the woman behind it.