The bass thudded through the walls like someone hammering nails into his skull.
Elliot Van Doren sat at the edge of his sofa, shoulders tight, one hand wrapped around a glass of water he hadn't sipped in twenty minutes. He stared at the ceiling, at the walls, at the darkened TV screen in front of him; anywhere but the door that led across the hall.
Again.
It wasn't the first time Val Newman had thrown a party, but tonight she seemed determined to break some kind of decibel record. Laughter spilled down the corridor, high-pitched shrieks followed by the crash of glass and the unmistakable roar of drunken applause.
Elliot rubbed his temple with his thumb.
"It's fine. Ignore it. You've ignored it before."
But his leg bounced against the floor, betraying him. He wasn't ignoring it.
He couldn't.
Across the hall, Val was probably flipping her ridiculous platinum blond hair back while basking in the attention of people whose names she wouldn't remember tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Elliot hadn't spoken to anyone outside of his best friend — and assistant, Noah in over a year. Time blurred when every day looked the same.
Another crash. More laughter.
Then the music kicked up again, louder than before.
He stood quickly, the water sloshing over the rim of his glass. His breath caught in his throat.
Go over there. Tell her to stop. It's two a.m., for God's sake.
But just the thought of knocking on her door made his chest tighten. His parents, faint memories as if he was seeing them through a haze — used to calm him when his anxiety flared.
Now they only echoed in the silence. Silence that Val seemed hellbent on destroying.
Elliot crossed to the door of his apartment and pressed his forehead against the cool wood. The noise vibrated through the frame. He clenched his jaw.
He could call security. Again. They knew him by name now. They knew her too. He hated that.
Or he could end it himself. Face her. Face people.
His hand hovered over the door handle.
From the hall came a voice, clear and confident, rising above the chaos.
Hers.
"Turn it up!" Val shouted, and the whole apartment erupted in cheers.
Elliot's pulse spiked. He yanked the door open, the sudden brightness and heat from across the hall flooding his space. Music thundered, bodies moved like a storm cloud in her doorway, and there she was, Val Newman, grinning like the world belonged to her.
She spotted him immediately. Her grin widened.
"Well, well, well. Prince Hermit emerges."
Heat crawled up his neck. The people nearest her turned to look, curious. Watching. Elliot's skin prickled under their gaze.
He wanted to retreat, shut the door, disappear.
But the bass boomed, her smirk lingered, and he'd had enough.
"Some of us," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "don't appreciate living inside a nightclub."
Gasps and laughter rippled through the crowd. Val tilted her head, mock sympathy in her eyes.
"Aw. Poor baby can't sleep?"
Elliot's fists curled at his sides. His chest was tight, but he held his ground.
For once.
The hallway filled with laughter as Val leaned against her doorframe, drink in hand, eyes glittering like she'd just won something.
"Aw, he does talk!" she announced, loud enough to drown out the music. Her crowd cheered like it was the best punchline they'd ever heard.
Elliot's jaw tightened.
A door opened down the hall. Mrs. Hartley, mid-sixties, pearls around her neck even after midnight, peeked out, face pinched with irritation.
"Some of us would like to sleep, Ms. Newman."
Val raised her glass in salute. "Come join us, Mrs. H! I'll put on Sinatra just for you!"
The old woman gasped and retreated, slamming her door.
Another neighbor, a young finance guy Elliot only knew in passing, poked his head out. "Seriously, it's Tuesday. Knock it off."
Val rolled her eyes.
"God, you're all so uptight. I'm bringing life to this mausoleum."
The music surged louder, almost as if on command. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath Elliot's bare feet. He wanted to shout, to tell her she wasn't clever or rebellious, just… unbearable. But the thought of all those eyes on him tightened his throat.
And then, like cavalry arriving, the elevator dinged.
Two uniformed security guards stepped out, already scowling. The crowd groaned.
"Ms. Newman," one said over the music, "you know the rules. This is the third complaint tonight."
Val made a show of sighing, tossing her platinum hair back. "Fine, fine. Party's over, everyone. Security's here to kill the vibe."
Boos and jeers rose from her guests, but Val clapped her hands.
"You heard 'em! Out you go. Tiptoe for the grumps."
The herd shuffled toward the elevator, muttering, and soon her apartment was empty but for the smell of cheap perfume and spilled beer. The music died, leaving a ringing silence Elliot wasn't used to anymore.
Val stood in her doorway, staring across at him, smirk firmly intact. "Happy now, Prince Hermit?"
Elliot exhaled, shoulders sagging with relief.
"Ecstatic," he muttered, retreating inside before he could unravel.
He closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins.
"Suit yourself," she said brightly. Her footsteps retreated across the hall, a door clicking shut behind her.
Minutes later, just as his breathing steadied, a knock echoed through his apartment.
He froze.
Another knock, lighter this time. "Hey, Van Doren," Val called through the wood, her voice syrupy sweet.
"I ordered pizza. Figured you could use some human contact. Or… carbs. Both work."
Elliot shut his eyes, pressed his palms to his ears, and didn't answer.
"Suit yourself," she said brightly.
Her footsteps retreated across the hall, a door clicking shut behind her.
The silence that followed was the kind he used to treasure. This building had once been his sanctuary. The walls were thick, the neighbours discreet, the entire atmosphere designed for people who wanted privacy more than company. It was perfect for him; quiet hallways, muted conversations in the elevator, no one asking questions or pushing boundaries. He could run his company from behind closed doors and no one cared, because that's what they'd all bought into here: distance.
Until her.
Since Val Newman had blown in with her off-key singing, her raucous laughter, and her endless stream of strangers parading through the corridor, the building had felt smaller, thinner, suffocating. Her noise seeped through the walls like smoke, curling into his every moment of stillness.
He had thought this place would let him breathe, let him heal. But lately, every day started and ended with her in some way.
Maybe it wasn't worth it anymore. Maybe he should sell, pack up, move to another glass tower full of ghosts like him. The idea of starting over made his stomach knot, but so did staying.
He dragged himself to his bedroom, exhaustion heavy but sleep still far away. As he slid beneath the sheets, he caught himself listening — for music, for laughter, for anything, for her.
The silence was almost too loud.