"Thanks for your purchase. The Lightningbird Courier Company awaits your next order," the middle-aged delivery man chirped.
Armin gave him a lingering, inscrutable look before redirecting his attention to the parcel. He signed the sleek contract with a steady hand, accepted the package, and turned back toward the building. It had taken less than ten minutes from the notification to the hand-off. It was this continues efficiency that kept Armin loyal to Lightningbird; they were as professional as he was precise.
"This should be enough for now," he murmured while examining the parcel.
He pushed open the door to his apartment. Though the space was compact and the building aged, the interior was immaculate. Every item in the cupboards sat in perfect alignment, and the air carried a faint, sweet scent of disinfectant—the hallmark of an occupant obsessed with order.
Sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed, Armin retrieved a pair of scissors. He sliced through the seal of the box to find several blister packs of painkillers and a sterile eyedropper. A receipt and a loyalty discount card were stapled neatly to the inside flap.
I'm becoming too dependent on these, he thought, staring at the pills. The doctor mentioned exercise, but...
He swallowed the medication and moved to the window and gentle pushed it open. Below, the weekend had brought the local park to life. Children shrieked with joy, groups of adults traded gossip, and a few senior citizens performed slow, rhythmic workouts that brought a dead smile to Armin's face.
"Too many people," he sighed.
He sat by the glass panel, basking in the fading dusky light. The flowing wind caught his dry, black hair, contrasting sharply against his pale skin.
-----
Meanwhile, in the small shop offside to the apartment...
Clang... Clang!
"Oye, Sam! Help me out here," an old man's voice echoed through the cramped, shabby room. "Mr. Kryk wants the pipelines re-checked. It looks like the last crew botched the job."
"Today is my day off, old man," Sam snapped, wiping grease from his forehead. "I'm not going. Besides, we just fixed those pipes three days ago. How could they be failing already?"
The older man's face soured, but he quickly forced a pleading smile. "Don't be like that. You're the best expert we've got, and Kryk promised double pay for a rush job."
"I don't care even if he triples it," Sam said, his voice dropping to a timid whisper. "I'm not setting foot in that wing again. Not after that tenant in 106. He nearly took my head off last time. I'm not crossing him again."
The old man scoffed. "Who, that fragile boy? He's a good youngster! He's always been polite to me—even apologized for bumping into me the other day. You're overworking yourself, Sam. You're seeing monsters where there are just kids."
Sam's face turned blue with a mix of anger and genuine fear. He pointed a trembling finger toward the upper floors of the building.
"Look at his eyes and tell me he's a 'kid.' They say he's got that anti-social disorder—the scary kind. He looks harmless until he's standing behind you." He gulped hard, leaning in closer. "Word is among the other tenants... he's already killed someone."
The old man glanced toward the apartment for a brief second before turning back with a grunt. "Baseless rumors. It's rude to gossip about the paying tenants. Now, quit your shaking @ss and grab your wrench."
Sam said nothing, his gaze fixed on the window of room 106.
In a purely white space stretching infinitely.
"..."
"So... why am I not dead yet?"
[Ding...]