He adjusted his tailored jacket, glanced with faint disdain at the worn-down building in front of him, and checked his watch with impatience. He didn’t like handling things like this himself, but his patience had run out.
The tenant in 4B hadn’t paid rent in three months, and Ethan—a businessman who lived by clean numbers—wasn’t about to let that slide. If payment doesn’t come today, they’re out, he told himself as he stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately—damp walls, stale air, the weight of neglect. He climbed the narrow stairs, stepping over scattered trash bags and broken toys, while distant music pulsed faintly through thin walls. B
y the time he reached apartment 4B, he paused, inhaled, and put on the firm, unyielding expression he used in negotiations. Then he knocked. Hard. Precise. Demanding.
He expected excuses. Maybe anger. Maybe confrontation.
But there was only silence.
He knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. Just as he reached for his phone to call a locksmith, he heard something faint—slow footsteps dragging toward the door. The lock clicked, hesitant, and the door opened just a crack.
Ethan lowered his gaze—and froze.
A little girl stood there.