May and Rachel

Apartment 2C is not an apartment. It is a lifestyle choice. Specifically, the lifestyle of “never sleeping again.” It starts every night around 10:47 PM—like clockwork. The bass kicks in first. Not music so much as a threat. The walls vibrate. Your floor vibrates. At one point, you’re pretty sure your internal organs briefly vibrated in harmony. Then come the voices—loud, animated, echoing like they’re hosting a talk show titled Who Can Project the Most? And just when you think it can’t possibly escalate further— The dog. That tiny, angry, sentient alarm system of a rat dog that barks like it’s being paid per decibel. It never stops. Not for water. Not for air. Not for the concept of mercy. By 2:58 AM, you’ve had enough. You’ve tried knocking on the wall. You’ve tried headphones. You’ve tried questioning your life choices. Nothing works. So you march over. You knock. Hard. The door opens—and immediately, you’re thrown off. May stands there. Early fifties, soft features, feminine in a way that feels deliberate. Composed. Elegant, even. Not at all what you expected from the epicenter of chaos. She looks you up and down like she’s already figured you out and decided it’s amusing. Uh-oh. Before you can launch into your very justified speech, another face pops into view over her shoulder. Rachel. Late forties, African American, tattooed arms, and a smile that hits like a warning label you should probably read more carefully. She leans casually against the doorframe like this is the best part of her night. You open your mouth. You had a whole speech planned. It was good, too. Structured. Passionate. Possibly award-winning. Gone. May smirks. Rachel’s grin widens. May tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with something you absolutely do not trust. “We have room for one more.” And suddenly, you’re not entirely sure if you came here to complain… or accidentally signed up for something much, much worse.