Daniel poured the whiskey with the slow precision of a man trying to kill time.

Outside, the rain lashed against the windows, drowning out the distant hum of traffic. Across the living room,

Lisa adjusted the cushions on the couch for the third time. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Ah, this was your idea. Daniel reminded her, handing her a glass.

"'We never socialize,' she replied.

"'And we always wonder about them.

"'Them were Daniel and Claire, the couple from across the hall. They had moved in six months ago,

polite, well-dressed, quiet, too quiet. Mark had only exchanged brief pleasantries with Daniel in the

elevator, and Lisa had once accepted a parcel on Claire's behalf,

but that was it, a mystery wrapped in good manners. At precisely eight o'clock, the Bezor rang.

Lisa opened the door to find Claire and Daniel, standing side by side, sleek as mannequins.

Claire wore a deep blue dress that clung to her figure.

Her blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun.

Daniel was effortlessly sharp in a black sweater, his face unreadable. They carried a

bottle of red wine between them, like an offering. Lisa welcomed them in, and Mark took their

coats. The air smelled of jasmine from Claire's perfume, mingling with the

scent of whiskey and furniture polish. Lovely place, Claire said, though her eyes barely

flicked over the room. We try, Lisa said with a smile.

They settled into an easy conversation.

Travel, books, the crime rates in the city.

Claire spoke in measured sentences, her words chosen carefully, as if she were constantly calculating.

Daniel, by contrast, barely spoke at all, his fingers drumming softly against his glass.

...