I looked up to find the barrel of a gun pointed straight at me.
"Shit, man! I'm just your neighbor—you were being loud as hell, so I got worried," I said quickly, throwing my hands up in front of my face like they'd somehow stop a bullet.
He looked confused for a split second, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, hesitantly, he lowered the gun, but kept staring at me in silence.
In a panic—because apparently I don't value self-preservation—I asked, "What did you do?"
"What?" he growled.
"Everyone who lives here is here for a reason. Running from something. Hiding. You know... criminals?"
He stood over me, shirtless, finger still hovering near the trigger of a Makarov pistol now resting loosely at his side. Soviet-made, by the look of it. His eyes bore into me like he was trying to read something hidden deep inside.
"No one chooses this place for its amazing amenities," I went on. "The rats that share your food, the lovely black mold décor, the gorgeous lighting that flickers out every few days... Shall I go on?"
"What did you do?" he shot back.
"Okay, wow—way to flip the question," I muttered. "But fair. I'll go first. I may have laundered some money from people I probably shouldn't have."
He squinted at me, his head tilting just slightly—curious, skeptical.
I slowly pushed myself up from the dusty hardwood floor. The creaking boards filled the silence between us.
"A lot," he said quietly, finally taking his finger fully off the trigger.
"Cool. Okay. Well... I'm just gonna go now. Since you seem fine. Bye?"
It came out like a question, like I was asking permission to leave. Inch by inch, I backed toward the door. His eyes didn't follow me—they stayed fixed on the spot where I'd been. He knew I wasn't a threat. Fully awake, he understood that much.
I slipped out the door and into my apartment, locking all three deadbolts behind me. I collapsed onto my bed and curled up under the blankets, deciding that sleep was probably where I should've stayed to begin with.
The next morning, I woke up to find a nice, ring-shaped bruise around my neck.
I decided it was probably best not to see him again. Unfortunate, considering he lived right next door—but I'd figure out a way to dodge him until he looked less likely to, well... shoot me.
A few days passed. We had the occasional run-in—no words, just glances. I saw him coming back from the market, while grabbing the mail, and a couple times at the laundromat down the street.
He didn't seem particularly bothered by my presence. If anything, he looked confused. Probably because I ran and hid every time I saw him.
Still... the more I saw him, the more curious I got.
He must really like plums. I noticed he bought them nearly every time I saw him out shopping—along with books. Not fiction either. Mostly heavy-looking nonfiction, the kind with plain covers and academic titles. He seemed like a history buff or something, though that didn't match the chaotic, borderline-apocalyptic state of his apartment.
A few days later I was unlocking the fortress I called a front door when he came home at the same time. For some reason, I blurted out:
"So... you like plums?"
Probably the weirdest thing I could've said. I didn't even know why I asked. Maybe because after all this time on the run, I hadn't really talked to anyone. I didn't have anyone I could, even if I wanted to. He didn't seem like he did either though.
He turned back toward me, his expression unreadable. "They're good for you."
"Yeah, I guess. Fruit's usually healthy," I replied. Dumb response. Good job, me.
We stood in silence for a moment, just kind of staring at each other.
Then I said, "Can I ask... what's up with the metal arm?"
I saw it immediately—the flicker of pain in his eyes. A wince, small but sharp. Like even hearing the question hurt.
"It's a long story," he said. "One I don't fully know."
"Eerie," I muttered.
He gave a nod. "Sorry about the other night. You, okay?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to his own neck.
"Oh. Yeah. Just a bruise. I've had worse."
"Sorry to hear that. I get it."
The silence came back—thicker this time, but not unfriendly.
Then, he pulled a plum out of his plastic grocery bag and held it out to me. "Did you want one?"
"Thanks." I reached out cautiously, keeping just enough distance between us as I took it.
A beat passed, then I said, "Did you want to come in? Maybe have a beer or something?"
Why the hell did I ask that? I had no idea who this guy really was. For all I knew, he could be a murderer. I'd be inviting a time bomb into my apartment. But still... I asked.
"You sure?" he said, eyeing me carefully.
"Yeah. It's fine. Come on in."
Dumbest thing I've ever done. But whatever. I have no friends.