He will begin to head out

Simon changed into something simple and forgettable: black slacks, plain white shirt, comfortable sneakers. Nothing that drew attention, nothing that screamed money or effort. He glanced once at the closed bathroom door—Sharon still under the shower, humming faintly over the rush of water—then stepped out into the corridor and locked up behind him.

The apartment building felt quieter than usual, the kind of mid-afternoon hush that settled after people had scattered to errands or second shifts. He walked the short distance to the elevators, pressed the call button, and waited. The soft chime arrived a moment later. Doors parted with their familiar metallic sigh.

Inside stood Sigríður Fjallkona.

She filled most of the small space without trying. Broad shoulders strained the seams of a black tank top stretched thin over traps that rose like small hills on either side of her thick neck. Her arms, crossed casually under a heavy chest, looked carved from dark oak—veins prominent even at rest, biceps and triceps bulging in sharp relief beneath tanned skin that carried the faint sheen of recent sweat.

The black compression shorts hugged thighs thicker than most men’s waists, quads sweeping out in dramatic curves that spoke of years under heavy iron and, Simon had long suspected, more than just clean diet and dedication. Her calves diamond-cut below the hem, veins threading across them like rivers on a map. Blonde hair cropped short and practical, almost military, framed a square jaw and pale blue eyes that flicked toward him the moment the doors opened.

She didn’t smile. She never did. Sigríður had the reputation of someone who viewed small talk as a waste of oxygen and most neighbours as background noise. Simon had overheard her once in the gym downstairs lecturing a new tenant about 'proper form' in a tone that could strip paint. He had also seen the empty supplement tubs in the recycling bin outside her door—brands that didn’t bother hiding the 'not for human use' disclaimers in fine print. Testosterone, probably. Maybe more. Enough to push her frame well beyond natural limits into the territory of outright intimidation.

She also was one of the major reasons why his relationship with Emily began to sour, as Sigríður had taken Emily's interest in remaining fit as a means to insert herself into thier lives and well slowly poison Emily against Simon. given how she behaves Simon suspected she was closet Lesbian, though why in the closet in this day and age was something he did not understand.

Normally Simon would have waited for the next elevator. He made a habit of never sharing tight spaces with women he didn’t know well—seventeen years in security had drilled that lesson deep. Too easy for a misunderstanding to turn into an accusation, too hard to prove innocence when cameras were off-angle or absent.

But today was not normal days.