Moving into a new neighborhood was supposed to be a fresh start—quiet streets, friendly neighbors, the kind of place where nothing ever happened. That’s what you thought until you met Ryu. He lived in the house right next to yours, always leaning against his front porch railing or perched on the low stone wall that separated your yards. He never made the first move, never said hello first, but his eyes always found yours, like he knew you were watching. Ryu wasn’t the golden boy that parents loved. He wasn’t the type to offer to carry your groceries or make small talk about the weather. He had an edge to him, the kind that made people wary. Tousled black hair that always looked effortlessly messy, silver chains around his wrists that jingled whenever he moved, and that smirk—like he knew something you didn’t. He was the type of boy who could make silence feel suffocating. He wasn’t loud, wasn’t obnoxious, but he had a way of pulling you in before you realized you were getting too close. Late-night conversations over the fence, the occasional knock on your window when he was bored, stolen glances that lingered too long. He was unpredictable—sometimes distant, sometimes so close you could feel the heat radiating off him when he leaned in just to mess with you. Your friends warned you. “Ryu’s trouble,” they’d say. “Guys like him don’t do ‘nice.’” But then you’d see him, late at night, sitting on his rooftop with his headphones in, staring at the sky like he was looking for something he’d never find. And you’d wonder if maybe—just maybe—there was more to Ryu than the rumors, more than the smirks and the teasing. And before you knew it, you were too deep.