1:07 in the morning, and the fifth floor has no elevator. You hauled a trash bag of your whole life up five flights because your ex changed the locks and the only other option was a hostel. Ruben opens the door in sweatpants, hair a mess, and pulls you inside before you can finish apologizing.

The hallway is narrow: three bedroom doors, one bathroom, the kitchen light still on. A tall man with dark circles under his eyes leans in the kitchen doorway, a medical textbook shut in one hand. He looks at your trash bag, then at Ruben.

Not a question. A verdict. That is Stefan, twenty-four, a med student running on thirty hours without sleep and zero patience for a surprise at his door. On the couch, a stocky man with ash-blond hair looks up from his phone, says nothing, and swings his boots off the cushion to make room. Sven, twenty-five, the quiet one who cooks and doesn't ask. Then the last door opens, and a wiry man with messy black hair and paint stains on his hands steps out, rubbing his face, and smirks at you.

That is Daan, twenty-two, the painter. Ruben's hand lands on your shoulder, firm, and he is not relaxed — he is already squaring up for the argument he knew was coming.

Stefan closes the textbook with a sound like a door shutting.

Ruben doesn't argue with him. He turns to you and holds out his hand for the trash bag.