Tapu had barely gotten used to the rhythm of his new life in Paris. Days rolled by with the sound of distant traffic, the smell of bakeries filling the streets, and the odd but strangely comforting chaos inside Flat No. 13. By now, Alina and Tapu had found a balance—well, almost. They had their arguments about laundry piles and who used the last of the coffee, but Baguette, their loyal little dog, always played peacemaker.
But on a crisp Saturday morning, Alina came rushing into the living room, her face lit up with excitement.
"Tapu! We're throwing a party tonight!"
Tapu, who had been peacefully sipping his tea and scrolling through a French phrasebook app, almost choked.
"A… party? Here? In this tiny flat?"
"Yes!" Alina clapped her hands like a child. "It's been weeks since you moved in, and we need to celebrate! Plus, I've already told everyone."
Tapu's jaw dropped. "Everyone? Who's everyone?"
Alina ticked names off her fingers. "My college friends, some neighbors, and… oh, remember the mysterious guy from upstairs? Adrien? He said he might come too."
At the mention of Adrien, Tapu's eyes narrowed. The memory of their first awkward encounter was still fresh. There was something about Adrien—his quiet confidence, the way he had looked at Tapu with those unreadable eyes—that unsettled him. But before Tapu could argue, Alina was already decorating.
Within hours, the living room was transformed. String lights were draped across the walls, mismatched cushions scattered around, and the small table nearly collapsed under the weight of snacks: croissants, chips, dips, and a large bowl of suspiciously strong sangria Alina had mixed.
"Don't worry," she said proudly. "French parties are small and classy."
Tapu looked at the overflowing bottles of wine. "This doesn't look small. Or classy."
Baguette barked as if in agreement.
By 8 p.m., the flat was buzzing. Laughter spilled into the hallway, music thumped from a speaker, and the once quiet apartment had become a mini festival. People spoke in a mix of French and English, some too fast for Tapu to follow. He stood awkwardly in a corner, holding a glass of orange juice (he had avoided the sangria after seeing how strong it smelled).
Alina, meanwhile, was in her element—dancing, introducing people, and telling dramatic stories that had everyone laughing. "And then Tapu thought the washing machine was broken, but guess what? He never plugged it in!"
The crowd burst into laughter, and Tapu raised his hand helplessly. "In my defense, the plug was hidden!"
Just as he was about to escape the embarrassment, the door creaked open. Adrien walked in.
The room seemed to pause for a second. Adrien had that effect—his tall figure, sharp jawline, and the effortless way he carried himself made him stand out. He gave a polite smile, murmured "Bonsoir," and casually joined the crowd.
Alina waved him over. "Adrien! You came! Meet Tapu again—my new flatmate."
Tapu forced a smile. "Hi. Nice to… see you."
Adrien's eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary. "Likewise."
Tapu quickly looked away, suddenly fascinated by the snack table.
The party soon grew louder. Someone started singing badly in French, two people were dancing dangerously close to knocking over a lamp, and Baguette had managed to sneak onto the table, happily munching on a croissant.
"Baguette! Get down!" Tapu hissed, but the little dog wagged his tail defiantly.
That was only the beginning of the chaos.
First, the speaker died mid-song, leaving an awkward silence until someone tripped on the wire trying to fix it. Then, a bowl of sangria tipped over, splashing across the white rug. Alina gasped dramatically. "That rug was from IKEA!"
"Exactly," Tapu muttered. "It cost ten euros."
Still, Alina treated it like a tragedy. She knelt with paper towels, declaring the stain "eternal."
Just when Tapu thought things couldn't get worse, he noticed Adrien quietly observing the chaos. Unlike everyone else, Adrien wasn't laughing or panicking—he was just… watching.
When Tapu caught his eye, Adrien leaned closer and whispered, "This place is never boring."
Tapu didn't know whether it was a compliment or a warning.
By midnight, the flat looked like a battlefield. Half the snacks were gone, someone was asleep on the couch, and Baguette had somehow found a balloon and was chasing it around the room, barking like crazy.
Alina, a little tipsy from her own sangria, clinked her glass. "A toast! To Flat No. 13—may it always be full of laughter!"
Everyone cheered. Tapu smiled despite himself. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.
But then came the moment that turned the night upside down.
The lights flickered.
At first, everyone laughed, thinking it was part of the party atmosphere. But then they went out completely, plunging the room into darkness.
A nervous silence fell. Someone fumbled with their phone flashlight. Tapu heard Baguette whining under the table.
"Relax, it's just a fuse," Alina said, stumbling toward the switch box. But before she could reach it, a loud crash echoed from upstairs.
Everyone froze.
"What was that?" someone whispered.
Adrien, standing by the door, looked unusually tense. "It came from my floor."
Without waiting, he rushed out. The guests exchanged nervous glances. Some laughed it off, calling it "drunk imagination," but Tapu couldn't shake the unease creeping into his chest.
The lights eventually returned, and people tried to revive the party, but the mood had shifted. Conversations turned quieter, and one by one, guests began to leave.
By 2 a.m., only Tapu, Alina, and Baguette were left in the messy living room. Alina yawned, collapsing on the couch. "Best party ever."
Tapu stared at the ceiling, thinking about the crash, the darkness, and Adrien's sudden reaction. Something about tonight felt… wrong.
Baguette curled up beside him, tail twitching. The little dog growled softly, staring at the door as if sensing something Tapu couldn't see.
And deep down, Tapu knew—whatever had happened tonight, it was only the beginning.