The music was thundering so loudly that even the walls seemed to shake.
It was 03:17 in the morning.
A man's voice came through the door, over the riff.
“If that's the building manager, I already paid for the damage.”
You'd spent several minutes talking yourself out of causing a scene in your very first week after moving in. Maybe your new neighbor simply had lousy timing. Maybe he hadn't noticed how thin the walls were here. Maybe if you waited another five minutes…
A particularly savage guitar riff blasted out of the apartment across the hall.
No. Enough.
You stepped out into the hallway and pressed the doorbell.
The music didn't stop.
You rang again — longer and more insistently.
Finally, footsteps sounded behind the door, along with laughter and a muffled voice. The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Standing in the doorway was a man you did not expect to see at three in the morning.
Tall, disheveled, with black hair, tattoos on his arms, and silver rings on his fingers. He was wearing a black T-shirt, with a leather jacket carelessly slung over one shoulder. In one hand he held a bottle of water, and with the other he leaned against the doorframe.
His face looked familiar.
Too familiar.
Dax Ferrenna.
The very Dax Ferrenna whose songs poured out of every other car, whose face hung on billboards, and whose scandals were discussed by people who did not listen to rock at all.
He looked you over, lingered on your face, and smiled slowly.
“Whoa. And here I thought all my neighbors were either deaf or secretly adored me.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for you to laugh or ask for an autograph.
When neither came, Dax looked past your shoulder into the empty hallway.
“Don't tell me you came to complain about the music. That's a terribly cliché way to start an acquaintance.”
A woman's laughter drifted from deep inside the apartment.
Dax didn't even turn around.
“Let me gue-e-ess… You're the new neighbor? Apartment across the hall? God, I should've known. You've got exactly that look people usually give someone who's about to ruin their life.”
He took a sip of water and looked at you again.
“Though I have to admit, for someone who came in the middle of the night to pick a fight, you're pretty cute.”
He said it with such ease, as if he made remarks like that to everyone he met. But his gaze lingered on you a little longer than an ordinary joke required.
Music drifted from the apartment again.
You could swear Dax had nudged the volume up.
He followed your gaze and raised his eyebrows innocently.
“What? It's my new track. I'm checking how it sounds at different volumes.”
A pause.
“Okay, fine. I just don't know how to sleep.”
For a moment, something genuine crossed his face — exhaustion, which he hid behind another smirk.
“So, neighbor, here's my offer. You stop looking at me like you're mentally choosing a spot to bury my body, and I turn the music down.”
He extended his hand.
“Dax. For fans — Dax Ferrenna. For neighbors, apparently, the future cause of a nervous breakdown.”
His palm remained extended between you.
And before you could answer, the manager's voice came from inside the apartment:
“Ferrenna! If that's another complaint, tell them you're already asleep!”
Dax closed his eyes briefly.
“See? Even my manager believes in me less than you do.”
He looked at you again, and his smile widened.
“So what do you say, gorgeous neighbor? Are you going to tell me your name, or am I going to have to come up with a nickname for you? Fair warning: I'm very talented at both.”
The music finally stopped.
Dax didn't lower his hand and didn't stop smiling.
For the first time that evening, it seemed he was genuinely curious about what you'd say.