Sharon this floors Karen

Simon stood in the hallway, keys still in hand, when the knock echoed down the narrow corridor. Sharp, insistent, the kind that carried judgment before a word was spoken. He paused, glancing toward the source—unit 3B, across from his own. The latch snapped back, and the door swung inward just far enough to frame her in the yellowed light spilling from behind.

A small, rigid woman planted herself in the doorway, as though the threshold were a line she alone enforced. Short silver hair cropped neatly around her head, combed forward with the precision of someone who measured every strand. Deep lines etched between her brows pulled them into a permanent frown, the sort honed by years of spotting infractions. Behind thick black rectangular frames, pale green eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing, flicking over him like he was another item out of place.

Her mouth puckered mid-breath, lips rounded in a tight hush. One finger pressed upright against them, the gesture firm and unapologetic, as if silence were a rule she'd just invented. The skin along her jaw drew tight with irritation, chin lifted a fraction, daring him to challenge her authority. Thin hoop earrings caught the light when she shifted, a faint glint against the severe set of her expression.

Sharon O’Dwyer Mazur.

Her name was taped in neat block letters on the mailbox downstairs, edges aligned with the kind of care that screamed control. In Simon's mind, it carried the same stiff formality as the woman herself. Complaints about noise, about rubbish left near the bins, about "unauthorized footwear" outside doors—they all traced back to her unit, delivered with the certainty of someone who'd appointed herself building warden.

"Afternoon, Miss O’Dwyer Mazur," Simon said, keeping his voice level despite the stale smell of boiled cabbage drifting from inside.

The finger lowered slowly. Her eyes did not soften.

"I suppose you think it is," she replied, each word clipped clean, as if even conversation required supervision.

"Young man," Sharon began, drawing the words out as though addressing a schoolboy caught in the stairwell. One hand stayed braced on the doorframe while the other jabbed a finger toward Simon's chest. "You disappear for the night and think that gives you leave to host a breakfast circus? Three voices shrieking, stomping about at dawn. Some of us live here. Some of us would like a quiet morning."

Her voice carried down the corridor, bouncing off the thin apartment walls. A door farther along clicked shut, someone retreating from the spectacle.

Simon kept his mouth closed. There was nothing to say while she gathered steam, chin lifting, glasses sliding down her nose as she lectured. Truth sat sour in his stomach anyway. While he was out on shift, Emily had let herself in, brought Ashlynn and Lauren along, and by the time he got back, the place was a mess—half-dressed chaos with Emily passed out on the couch and two women tangled in his guest room. The memory needled him, not because of Sharon's lecture echoing down the hall, but because he'd walked into his own living room and felt like the intruder.

"I will not have my mornings disrupted," she declared, chin tipped high. "People here work. People here require rest. We are not running a nightclub on the third floor."

Her voice sharpened with each sentence. She adjusted her glasses with a quick, irritated push. "If you cannot manage your household, perhaps you should reconsider whether you are suited to communal living. There are standards. There are expectations."

A curtain twitched in a nearby window. Sharon noticed and straightened further, clearly encouraged by the possibility of an audience.

"I have lived here for twelve years," she went on. "Twelve. And never once have I subjected my neighbours to that kind of display. Screaming, thumping, whatever it was that was going on in there."

Simon let her words drift past him. The apartment complex had not been more than five years old, so Sharon was being hyperbolic, inflating her tenure like it added weight to her complaints. His gaze wandered to a crack in the corridor paint just above her shoulder. He nodded once, slow and absent, the way someone does when waiting for rain to pass. The lecture gathered volume and detail, but he offered nothing for it to land on. Seventeen years in security had taught him that escalation rarely fixed anything—better to assess, then act.

"Sharon."

Her name cut across the corridor, clean and level. The next complaint stalled on her tongue.

"You’re going to come inside," he said, voice steady, unhurried. "You’ll sit at the table. You’ll wait until I speak to you."

No rise in volume. No visible strain. The words settled between them with quiet certainty, the same detached authority he used to de-escalate bar fights or clear out lingering crowds.

The change was immediate.

Tension drained from her face as though someone had pulled a plug. Her brows loosened. The sharp set of her mouth softened into something blank, almost uncertain. She blinked once, then nodded.

"You’re right," she murmured, the earlier bite gone from her voice.

She stepped over the threshold without another word.

Simon turned his back on her and walked into the apartment. He heard the soft click of her sensible shoes against the floor as she followed. The door closed with a muted thud behind them. At the dining table, he took his seat and folded his hands in front of him before lifting his eyes to Sharon.