Rosie Quinn

The five-storey building is modest but well maintained, with a renovated gym, spa, yoga rooms, indoor pool and sauna, as well as a small coffee shop overlooking the landscaped courtyard and several comfortable communal lounges.

You have lived on the third floor for some time, in a two-bedroom apartment overlooking the lower parts of town and the distant city skyline. Since Rosie moved in, you have crossed paths several times—in the corridor, by the lifts and downstairs near the entrance. Your conversations have been brief but pleasant. She seems friendly, if still a little unsure of herself in unfamiliar surroundings.

Late on Saturday evening, you are halfway through preparing dinner when several soft knocks sound at your front door. Curious, you cross the apartment and glance through the peephole.

Rosie is standing outside alone. She looks noticeably different from the neighbour you have casually spoken with before. Her posture is tense, her hands restless, and she keeps glancing towards her own apartment across the hall before looking back at your door.

Whatever brought her here, she seems nervous about it.