Jackim moved into the Aurora Heights Residences on a quiet Sunday evening. The building rose like a shard of glass above Sue City's skyline—twenty-five floors of mirrored luxury and silence that smelled faintly of new money. The System had purchased the apartment automatically after he muttered, "I deserve somewhere peaceful."
He stepped from the elevator with two suitcases and a tired smile. The corridor carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps; the lights dimmed to gold when he passed. Apartment 1702—his. He keyed in the code, and the door sighed open to a wide living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond them, the city burned in neon: traffic veins, rooftops, the whisper of sirens.
"Not bad," he murmured.
> System Ping: Host comfort level + 10. Stress reduced.
He dropped onto the couch. For the first time in months, he felt he could breathe.
A soft knock came from the hallway. He frowned; no one knew he had moved in. When he opened the door, sunlight from the opposite window flared around a woman standing barefoot, holding a cardboard box.
"Hi—uh, sorry." She smiled, cheeks flushed. "New neighbor? I think your keycard opened my delivery locker by mistake."
Jackim blinked. She was tall—maybe 5′8″—with smooth bronze skin and hair the color of roasted coffee that fell over one shoulder. A simple white tee knotted at the waist, ripped jeans, and the effortless confidence of someone used to cameras. Her eyes were a sharp hazel, bright enough to make a man forget words.
"I guess that makes me guilty." He took the box, checking the label. "Melissa Danvers?"
"That's me. Apartment 1703."
"Jackim," he said.
She tilted her head, studying him. "Jackim. The mysterious new tenant who moved in at sunset. I saw the truck. You don't look like the usual business types here."
He smirked. "And you don't look like someone who carries boxes herself."
She laughed, light and genuine. "Touché. I'm a livestream host, so I mostly unbox tech for people who already have too much money."
Her phone buzzed, lighting her face. She sighed. "Work again. Anyway—welcome to Aurora Heights. If you ever need sugar, coffee, or sarcasm, knock on 1703."
Before he could answer, she turned and disappeared into her apartment, the scent of vanilla trailing after her.
That night, Jackim leaned on his balcony rail, staring at the stars buried under city haze. Through the glass divider he could see Melissa's balcony next door—soft string lights, a laptop glowing, her silhouette moving as she spoke to her stream audience.
He couldn't hear the words, only her laughter, clear as chimes.
> System Ping: Potential connection detected. Subject Melissa Danvers—Affinity 3%. Do you wish to initiate interaction quest?
Jackim chuckled under his breath. "No quests tonight, System. Let life happen."
Still, when she waved from her balcony after ending the stream, he found himself waving back.
The next morning, he met her again in the elevator. She carried a camera tripod; he had coffee in hand.
"Morning," she said, eyes half-closed from lack of sleep.
"You work all night?"
"Editing," she groaned. "My viewers think livestreaming is just smiling for donations. They don't see the fifteen hours of cutting mistakes."
"Sounds familiar."
"Oh?"
"I've had my share of long nights fixing… problems I didn't cause."
The elevator dinged. She looked at him curiously but didn't ask. Outside, sunlight struck the marble lobby and painted her hair gold.
"Tell you what," she said, turning. "I owe you for bringing that box yesterday. Coffee at the rooftop café? They have dangerous muffins."
He considered refusing; the System had warned him about distractions. But something in her tired smile softened him.
"Dangerous muffins?" he said. "I'll risk it."
The café perched on the top floor, open air with potted palms and a view of the city bleeding into noon haze. Melissa ordered a caramel latte; Jackim kept to black coffee.
"So what do you do, mysterious neighbor?" she asked, chin resting on her palm.
"I invest. Different fields."
"That's vague enough to sound suspicious."
He smiled. "I prefer private success."
"I get that." She traced the rim of her cup. "People see a woman online and think they own a piece of her. Privacy becomes luxury."
The wind tugged her hair. For a moment she seemed less the confident influencer and more a girl trying to stay balanced on her own fame.
"Must be lonely sometimes," he said.
She looked up, surprised by the gentleness in his tone. "Sometimes," she admitted. "You?"
"Used to it."
Their eyes held a little too long. The System pinged again, soft as a heartbeat.
> System Notice: Affinity + 7%. Emotional resonance detected.
Jackim ignored it and sipped his coffee.
Over the next week, small coincidences drew them together—same elevator rides, same grocery deliveries, her knocking for help with a power socket. They began trading jokes through their balconies at night, city lights flickering between them like fireflies.
One evening, rain started suddenly, hammering the glass. Jackim stood at the window watching droplets race down. Then came another knock.
Melissa stood there soaked, clutching a towel. "Power's out in my place," she said. "Can I—?"
He stepped aside. "Of course."
She moved to the couch, dripping and laughing. "I swear I didn't plan this."
"Sure you didn't." He tossed her a spare hoodie. It hung oversized on her, sleeves covering her hands.
"Thanks." She wrung her hair into the towel, then looked at him. "You ever feel like the city just… tests you? Gives you something beautiful, then waits to see if you'll ruin it?"
He met her gaze. "Every day."
Silence settled, warm and uncertain. Outside, thunder rolled.
> System Prompt: Interaction Quest Available: Comfort the Lonely Neighbor. Reward — Unknown.
He almost laughed. Not tonight, System.
Melissa's phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, frowned. "Sorry, work emergency."
Jackim noticed the message flashing before she hid it: WHEEL Contact 01: Meeting Tomorrow.
But he said nothing.
She stood, pushing damp hair from her face. "Thanks for the hoodie, neighbor. I'll bring it back—clean."
"Keep it," he said.
Their eyes met again, something unspoken passing between them.
When she left, the apartment felt strangely quieter.
Later, on his balcony, Jackim replayed the moment in his head—the warmth of her laughter, the quick flash of fear when she read that message.
> System Report: Affinity Level 12%. Warning: Subject may possess concealed data related to Organization 'The Wheel'.
Jackim exhaled slowly. "Figures."
Still, he couldn't shake the memory of her smile in the rain.
He looked across the divide between their balconies. Her lights were off now. Only the faint glow of her camera monitor remained, like a secret heartbeat in the dark.
For the first time, Jackim wasn't sure if the System's warning mattered.