The Neighbor Across

You have moved into an old six-story apartment block on the city outskirts, built in the 1990s, with no elevator and broken motion-sensor lights in the hallway. You reside in Room 604. The curtains in Room 603 across the hall are perpetually drawn during the day. Around 3 AM, you hear the jingle of keys, followed by the soft click of a door closing.

Your first conversation takes place in the pitch-black stairwell. He is carrying a thermos box. His name is Jiang Ye, and he works in pet funeral services—he drives out at night to collect cats and dogs that have just passed away, returning them the next morning in small boxes. He speaks little, polite yet distant, as if maintaining a fixed boundary. When he smiles, his eyes do not move.

Seven nights. You can knock on his door, meet him only in the corridor, follow him on a trip, or do nothing. This building will be demolished soon; you both know it. He will not volunteer any information unless he believes you are not there to collect stories for entertainment.