Chapter Text
The neighborhood is ugly.
Ugly to the core.
Cracked sidewalks, buildings that look like carbon copies of one another, half-lowered shutters that seem already tired of existing. Small shops fighting to survive one more day, bars that stink of rancid grease clinging to the walls. It’s not pleasant to look at. This is a place where no one gets involved in anyone else’s life because they have more than enough with in their own
Perfect.
I drag the suitcase along slowly, listening to the wheels screech horribly against the pavement. Every bump sends a spike of irritation crawling up my spine, but I keep going. Stopping now would be a bad idea. Stopping means thinking. And thinking means remembering her. Her voice. Her house.
Here, I am nobody.
And that feels good.
No one has any idea where I come from or why I ran off with half my life crammed into a suitcase that looks like it might burst open at any moment from everything inside. This anonymity is almost therapeutic, even if my chest still feels tight, as though someone were pinching my heart between two fingers.
I spot a group of kids smoking on a corner, laughing loudly, without a trace of shame. I walk past them with my head down. I’m not in the mood to be noticed. Simply existing right now already costs me enough without adding another problem to the list.
At the end of the street, I can see the building.
It's narrow, tall, and clearly worn down by time. The facade is filthy, as if the last time it was cleaned was sometime before Arceus was even born. The windows don’t match— some have plants, other curtains pulled tightly shut.
I stop in front of it.
I don’t feel anything nice.
No excitement. No hope. None of that sentimental bullshit.
Just a strange, hollow feeling—like when you know something important is about to happen, but you don’t know whether it’s good, or just another thing that’s going to wreck your life even more.
I stand there for a few seconds, staring up, the suitcase pressed against my side, my body tensing for no clear reason. I think that whatever happens from now on, anything is better than going back to that old bitch’s house.
And that alone is better than whatever might be waiting for me here.
Once inside, the smell of stale dampness and old paint hits me full force. Every step echoes with the sound of broken tiles, like a metallic scream. I see doors with swollen wood, some with worn-out stickers still clinging to them. On the walls there are stains that could be chocolate or dried vomit—the difference doesn’t really matter. There’s absolutely no one around, yet I still feel like I’m being watched. Paranoia.
When I head toward the elevator, I see the sign: Out of service. Of course. Arceus knows when was the last time it received maintenance. I turn to the stairs instead, with a rusted handrail that looks like it would give you tetanus just from brushing against it.
And I start climbing, panting like a dog, feeling the heat creep up my neck and back. Every step creaks as if it’s issuing a warning: Put a little more weight on me and I’ll snap.
The landing windows barely let any light in, choked by dust dancing in the few rays that manage to slip through. The view doesn’t really help either—the surrounding buildings are just as gray as this one. Depressing.
I pass several doors; some have small notes taped to them, others childish crayon drawings, others some kind of cross or religious symbol. Other people’s lives stuck to the wood and dust.
Finally, I reach the last stretch of stairs and stop right in front of the door I’m about to open. Inside, something unknown is waiting for me—something that might finish screwing up my life, or maybe, just maybe, help me finally clear my head.
I take another breath.
I reach out my hand, but before I can even touch the doorknob, the door swing open abruptly. I jump, barely managing not to fall flat on my ass.
“Hey.” A firm, clear voice, without a hint of hesitation. “You must be the Flareon Sam mentioned, right?”
A tall, elegant figure appears in the doorway. An Absol—white fur that seems to glow even in the poor light of the landing, dark eyes that bore straight into your soul. Everything about her is straight, measured, precise; everything feels calculated down to the millimeter, as if she could tear you apart with just a look and then smile without a shred of remorse.
“I’m Beatrice,” she says, extending a paw. I take it carefully as she helps me steady myself, trying not to look as nervous as I actually am. “This is the apartment. Please move the suitcase out of the doorway.”
My body barely responds through the nerves, but her intimidating presence alone seems to force it into motion.
“Bridget,” I blurt out, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I’m here to… stay, I guess.”
She simply nods, not missing a detail about me. “Quick rules: cleanliness, kitchen, schedules, respect for others. You’ll pick up the rest as you go. No surprises.”
And that’s when it really starts to piss me off. Not because what she’s saying is strange —they’re normal rules— but because of how she says it. That tone that leaves no room for questions. The kind that says: I’m in charge, you obey, and if you don’t, too bad.
My body tenses slightly as the memory of the old bitch creeps into my mind.
Still, I have to deal with it for now. So I just move the suitcase, walk past her, and repeat to myself that at least there won’t be any beatings here… hopefully.
The floor creaks with every step, the walls are bare but worn, and the dim lightbulb does nothing to make the place feel welcoming.
Once inside, I take a quick look around the apartment. The first thing I notice is the kitchen on the right—small, with only the essentials: a relatively clean sink, two burners that at least look functional, and a couple of plain cabinets. Everything is decent enough, though clearly old; this place has to be at least older than me.
To my left is what looks like the common area, stripped down to the bare minimum: a table, a couple of chairs… and that’s it. No TV, no consoles, no entertainment of any kind. Not even a shelf with books or anything.
Straight ahead, there’s a narrow hallway—one door on one side, two on the other, and one last door at the very end. They’re all identical. No names, no signs, nothing to hint at what might be behind any of them.
It’s definitely not pretty or cozy, but at least it looks clean and more or less orderly. I can’t really complain.
One of the hallway doors —the one on the lone side— slowly cracks open. I can barely make out a dark silhouette, pointed ears, and a faint golden glow that makes the shape slightly clearer. An Umbreon. Those reddish eyes pierce straight through me, completely still. He doesn’t say a word, just watches in silence, as if measuring every single movement I make.
“Uh…” A murmur slips out of me, though I’m not even sure that figure can hear me.
Nothing. No blinking. No words. That calm…
I feel absolutely uncomfortable, yet at the same time I can’t bring myself to look away. It’s unsettling, but fascinating in its own way.
“Um…” I say, raising my voice slightly in case he can’t hear me from there. “...hello.”
No response. Just those damn eyes. It drives me insane not knowing what the hell is going on right now.
I take a deep breath and tell myself this is not the time to back down. Fine—he can stare all he wants. I’m not going to let myself be intimidated.
I manage to shift my attention to Beatrice. She’s frowning now, watching as that figure continues to stare at me without pause. She steps toward him and, in a cold but instructive voice, says:
“Adam, stop staring. She’s staying here.”
The figure —apparently his name is Adam— finally blinks, takes a couple of steps back, obeying without a word, though he doesn’t seem to lose sight of me through the narrow gap in the door. A chill runs down my spine… Creepy.
“Bridget,” I hear Beatrice address me, “before you go to your room, you should know this: Adam suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. I’m not going to explain how it works. You just need to know this—don’t approach him suddenly, don’t provoke him, respect his space, speak calmly, and above all, don’t expect everything to be easy for him to understand. Now, let me show you your room.”
I nod, biting my tongue. I have to suppress the urge to blurt out what a way to give someone a welcome… What a fucking mess. A guy who just stands there staring at you like a psycho.
I take another deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts, when Beatrice turns with a crisp motion and starts down the hallway. I grab my suitcase and drag it behind me, the wheels screeching as if the floor itself were hurling every possible curse at me.
“Before you see your room,” she says, barely looking at me, “there are a few things you need to know.” We stop in front of one of the hallway doors, the one farthest from the entrance. “Adam takes medication. Twice a day. It is essential that his schedule is not disrupted.”
I nod, even though I’m not entirely sure what that has to do with me.
“Don’t ask him about it. Don’t touch it. Don’t comment on it. If he misses a dose, you come directly to me. Do not try to help him on your own.”
Got it. I’m supposed to keep tabs on whether that creepy guy takes his pills. The caregiver job definitely wasn’t in the contract.
“He needs silence,” she continues. “Especially at night, but preferably during the day as well. I don’t want loud music, no arguments in common areas. Doors are to be closed gently.”
I look at her, raising an eyebrow slightly.
“Gently how?” I ask. “Normal gentle, or ‘if it makes the slightest noise everything falls apart’ gentle?”
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even frown. She just looks at me for a few seconds before answering.
“Normal,” she finally says. “But conscious.”
Wonderful. Conscious silence. This just keeps getting better by the second.
“Visitors are limited,” she adds. “No strangers without prior notice. No one stays overnight without my permission. And the rules are not discussed in front of Adam.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Who the hell does this woman think she is? Sure, I wasn’t exactly planning on inviting anyone to a dump like this—but being told who I can or can’t invite seriously pisses me off. And that whole permission thing? She can shove that permission wherever I say.
“And what if someone doesn’t agree?” I challenge her, baffled by the absurdity of it all.
“Then this is not the place for you,” she replies in that same fucking impassive voice.
Where the hell did I get myself into? I thought I’d be getting the independence I wanted—or rather, desperately needed. Instead, I’ve landed in this mess.
I clench my jaw so hard it feels like my teeth might crack. Heat rises to my head, the kind that never leads to anything good. But I force myself —really force myself— to take a moment and breathe. I can’t blow up now. Even if this place is shit, it’s my only option at the moment.
In normal places they tell you where the bathroom is, or warn you that hot water takes a while. Here, it feels like I’m being read the internal regulations of a maximum-security prison.
“Anything else?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.
Beatrice studies me for a moment, as if debating whether to dump the rest of the rulebook on me now or save it for later.
“Respect,” she says at last. “For the common spaces and for the people who live here.”
Honestly? I can’t even get mad at that. It’s the most reasonable thing she’s said so far.
I nod, this time more sincerely.
“Good,” she concludes. “Let me show you your room.” Just as she reaches for the doorknob, she stops. “I almost forgot—if you have any issues with anyone else in the apartment, do not hesitate to inform me.”
As if I were dying to tell you anything right now. Bitch.
“Understood,” I finally reply, just before she reveals what lies behind that door.
Beatrice opens the bedroom door and gestures for me to go in first. The space isn’t large. Two regular beds—one of them buried under clothes, makeup scattered everywhere, perfume thick in the air right in the center of the room; the other is spotless, almost obsessively clean, tucked into the left corner. In the opposite corner there’s a thin mattress that looks like it was picked up off the street. I wonder who’s sleeping there tonight…
Two figures are already inside, seemingly at ease. The first is a Vulpix, with a brazen attitude and tails swaying with open arrogance. The other is a Leafeon, sitting on a chair by the window, wearing a calm expression.
“This will be your room,” Beatrice says, pointing at the mattress—exactly what I expected her to say. “It’s temporary, until we manage to get you a proper bed. The ones next to it belong to them.” She gestures toward the other beds, then toward the two figures in the room. “You already know the house rules. I won’t be reminding you constantly.”
No need, thanks. As if I could forget the lecture you just gave me.
“Good,” Beatrice concludes. “Settle your things and keep things orderly. I’ll take my leave now.”
Before I can say anything, she’s already turned around and left. No goodbye. No approving smile. Nothing. Honestly, I almost prefer it—no need to risk her pulling out even more rules.
For several long seconds, the silence in the room stretches until it becomes almost tangible.
“So, you’re the new one?” The Vulpix is the first to speak, her voice laced with a kind of mischief. “I love seeing new faces.”
I nod, biting my tongue. This is usually the moment where I’d love to fire back with some acidic remark, but I hold it in.
“Hi,” says the Leafeon, smiling so perfectly it immediately makes me suspicious. “You must be Bridget, right?”
I nod again, more slowly this time, my eyes drifting around the room and finally landing on my improvised mattress in the corner. They’d better get that new bed soon.
I watch as the Vulpix gets up from her bed and walks straight toward me. She stops right in front of my face, paws on her hips. The strong cloud of perfume coming off her makes me feel like I’m about to throw up.
“Well, well… what do we have here…” I can feel her gaze scanning me from head to toe, taking in every detail of my body. “A bit short, but damn—you're hot as hell.”
I feel my jaw tighten. What kind of way is that to introduce yourself to someone who just arrived?
“What?” I reply, holding back the urge to tell her to fuck off.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” she says, waving a hand as if I were an annoying insect. “Just appreciating the view. Name’s Zara, by the way.”
Having to share the space where I sleep with this creature is going to be pure torture. I can feel my head starting to heat up again, but I force myself to pause and breathe. Restraint. I cannot explode.
“I like your hair,” she says suddenly, reaching out and touching a strand of my fur, barely brushing against me. “Soft, warm… damn, I love it.”
Fuck. Every single cell in my body is screaming smash her face in, and I honestly have to clench my fist hard to stop myself. I need to calm down or this is going to go very badly.
“Great…” I finally say, my voice wavering under the weight of all the anger I’m holding back. “Nice to… meet you.”
Zara rolls her eyes and heads back to her bed, stretching her tails as if she owns the room. I watch her, thoroughly irritated, wondering whether she always acts like this or if she just decided I’d be today’s entertainment.
While I’m still trying to recover from Zara’s verbal assault, the Leafeon calmly rises from the chair by the window and takes a step toward me. His movements are smooth, measured, almost careful, as if he were afraid of breaking something fragile.
“Uh… hi. I’m Kai. Do you want me to help you with that?” he says, gesturing toward the suitcase. “I can move it, put your things on the bed—whatever you need.”
I look at him with a mix of distrust and disbelief. After the entire cast of characters I’ve already run into in this apartment, he feels… strange. Still, my back appreciates someone showing a bit of concern.
“Well… yeah, I guess,” I reply, relieved that not everyone in this place is an asshole or completely unhinged.
Kai crouches down, carefully lifts the suitcase, and sets it on my shitty mattress. Then he looks at me and waits, wearing a smile that’s too perfect not to feel calculated.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice almost trembling.
I take that back. He’s weird. Why does it sound like he’s begging me to tell him he did it right…?
“Yeah… it’s fine,” I finally say, a little sharper than I intended.
Kai nods and straightens up. He watches me as I start placing my things on the improvised mattress—still too attentive, too focused.
“Would you like me to help you organize your space? I can help with anything…”
On one hand, it’s useful—almost sweet. On the other, there’s something about that level of eagerness that makes my skin crawl.
“I’m good,” I say, firmer this time. “I can handle it.”
Kai nods again, but he doesn’t move away completely, as if he wants to make sure I really am okay with him standing there. His presence—polite and calm on the surface—feels heavier than it should.
From her bed, Zara rolls her eyes, clearly entertained by my discomfort and the whole display of forced courtesy. I bite my lip to keep from snapping, what the hell are you staring at, idiot.
I can’t wait for this day to finally be over…
I pull the blanket over myself, trying to find the least awful position on this shitty mattress. The heat of the night seeps in through every crack, and the silence that should be a relief after a day like this… doesn’t exist.
From the bed next to mine, Zara’s damp, rhythmic whisper hits my eardrums. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on: she’s masturbating. I can’t believe this. Every movement, every breath, echoes through the room like a private concert.
I try to turn over, pull the blanket over my head, breathe deeply. Nothing works.
I lift my head slightly. Kai is in his bed on the other side of the room, apparently asleep—or at least pretending to be. I wonder if he can hear all of this too and is just playing dumb to avoid trouble. For a moment, I almost laugh at how ridiculous it all is: this lunatic is getting herself off in the middle of the room with two other people right there, like it’s nothing.
Every sound she makes makes me clench my jaw. My heart pounds like a hammer, my blood boiling.
I try to think about something else: how I’m going to survive in this apartment, how absurd my situation is. Every time my mind starts to settle, another sound reminds me I’m not alone.
I close my eyes and whisper to myself, Tomorrow will be another day. Hang in there. She’ll fall asleep eventually… right?
Because that’s all I can do right now: endure it.
The silence never comes.