Namjoon hasn't spoken to anyone in three days. He's not sure if this is worrisome or an accomplishment, but he takes comfort in it all the same.

It seems having a place of his own where he answers to no one and is responsible for only himself has awakened a strong desire for hermitage that he was unaware existed. Being talked to by the bus driver feels like a lifetime ago and he almost can't believe he managed a civil conversation.

He has no desire for human interaction because he has nothing to say and no way to relate. Not to mention the fewer people who speak to him, the less identifiable he is to anyone who comes looking.

After a semi-disastrous trip to the grocery store, his cupboards have gone from empty and gathering dust to filled with an assorted collection of items that don't require much, if any, cooking. Most meals consist of macaroni and cheese from a box, ramen, a few pre-made dinners, and peanut butter sandwiches. While not the delicious, catered meals he was used to back at the complex, his stomach doesn't complain and it brings a warm flare of satisfaction that he did it by himself.

It pained him, the first few days. He was ashamed that he felt proud and accomplished after completing such simple tasks. He felt like a child, and still does at times. He hasn't been injured, he's not traumatized. It's not like he was trapped in a basement, never allowed to speak or see the sun.

What happened to The Night? That confident, strong, and ruthless man? Perhaps he never existed in the first place. All along, Namjoon was nothing but a figure of straw, thin and fake. Now he's been ripped apart, left to desperately pull the shreds of his former self around him into something resembling a functioning person.

At 27, Namjoon should know how to run his life. Hell, he's run other people's lives. And ruined them. He did it for years.

And yet the thought of going out there and staring people in the eyes, of looking into the mirror and seeing the wreck of a human he's become is enough to make him want to shut the door, curl up in the middle of his empty bedroom, and never come out again.

So when he's out checking his mailbox in the midday heat, as he likes to do despite only getting junk mail addressed to CURRENT RESIDENT, and a man looks up from the next box over and waves, the junk mail crumples in Namjoon’s clenched fist.

His expression immediately deadens so his mouth is flat and straight. Unable to bring an arm up to return the wave, Namjoon can only offer a quick, stiff bow, like an agitated bird pecking at the dirt. Without bothering to see how this is received, he scurries back inside.

Collapsing against the closed door, the few flyers fall to the floor with a quiet rustle while he tries to catch his breath.

There's a neighbor.

He curses himself for losing his cool, silently chanting I'm better than that, I'm an adult for crying out loud. I'm not afraid of other people. Mentally shying away from the word "afraid," he swoops down to grab the junk mail and retreats to his bedroom.

The presence of The Neighbor weighs on his mind for the rest of the day. He keeps away from the windows, wishing for the first time that the house had curtains. Lunch (mac and cheese) and dinner (ramen) are eaten in the living room with a plastic fork, straight out of the only pan on the premises. Having lost the freedom of staring out the windows, he tries his best to prop The Candle Maker's Daughter open with one hand and eat with the other. He only has to rescue a stray noodle from the carpet twice.

The safe bubble of the house has been broken. The knowledge that The Neighbor is fifty feet away, eating cereal or showering or talking to another neighbor keeps him on edge, presses on the windows and his shoulders and the backs of his hands, and his romance novel and his brain. 

As night falls Namjoon curls up in the corner with his book, where strapping protagonist Hans has just escaped the king's men and is again seeking refuge with the beautiful Hildegard. She pulls him into her arms, his hands go straight to her bottom, and things get nasty right there on the floor.

If only it were that easy. Hans and Hildegard instinctively know what the other is trying to say. They're always on the same page.

Still, the fictional groaning and ing quickly lose his interest, so Hans and Brunhilda are retired back to their window sill and Namjoon goes to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

One of the few shirts he owns is permanently draped over the mirror above the sink. On his first night in the house, he wasn't thinking about the obvious fact there would be a mirror and almost threw a punch into it in a rush of reactionary adrenaline. Now it's covered like he's some tragic creature from Beauty and the Beast, but no matter how much he mocks himself for it, his hands never reach up to pull it down.

Namjoon sits on the edge of the bathtub and scrubs at his teeth, thinking about The Neighbor. He was too panicked earlier to process, but the more he knows about the people around him the better off he'll be. He needs to be prepared just in case anyone from the organization comes poking around.

Thinking back, the neighbor was probably around Namjoon’s age with brown hair swept to the side and a cane, of all things.

That only makes him feel a little bit better. The Neighbor isn’t likely to be a threat if he has some sort of permanent injury. It’s an uncharitable thought, but Namjoon can outrun him if it comes down to it.

The offhand thought that maybe a neighbor would invite him over for dinner seems foolish now. Like he could do that. Like he could have that after all of the things he's done.

Namjoon rinses, returns his toothbrush to the medicine cabinet, and wipes his damp hands on the t-shirt. It's not like there are any towels.

He doesn't know what time it is, but cool darkness blankets the houses that stretch down the street in a gentle curve. A few stars persistently shine through the overwhelming lights of the suburb. He never looked up at the sky when he was in the complex. In such a short time, the memories of his years there have grown shadowed and visceral, small, shrunken, hot with blood.

Yoongi, the only name that pains him, is nothing but ghostly eyes shining silver.

He's being morbid and overly emotional again.

Grunting, Namjoon shucks his shorts, but leaves his shirt on. Like the previous nights, he curls up on the barren floor, pulls his sweatshirt over his legs as a makeshift blanket, and hopes he doesn't dream.

He dreams of a neighbor inhumanly tall and strange whose radiance burns into his walls and skin, filling the hallways with indomitable light.