Three months before his arrest...
The night dragged on slowly inside Ethan Voss's small one-bedroom apartment. The walls were pale, chipped in places, and the ceiling above his bed carried faint cracks that stretched from corner to corner. He lay on his back staring at it, his eyes tracing the uneven lines, but it was not the cracks that kept him awake.
It was the noise.
The sound came from upstairs. At first, it had been faint music, but it grew louder as the night deepened. A heavy bass thudded through the ceiling, rattling his nerves, and deep male voices mixed with it. Sometimes laughter, sometimes shouts, always cutting through the quiet of the building.
Ethan groaned and pressed a pillow over his head. The thin cotton did little to block the sound. The vibrations traveled through the floor and into his chest. He turned to his side, then to his stomach, then back again, but nothing helped. His body refused to rest.
Finally, he sat up. His hair stuck up in odd angles, and his eyes were red from tiredness.
"This is too much," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with both hands. "It's like they are throwing a concert up there."
He pushed himself off the bed and walked toward the window. Outside, the city stretched quietly in the night, street lamps glowed yellow, a dog barked in the distance and somewhere, a car drove by slowly. Everything outside was calm. Inside his head, however, the music from upstairs kept drumming like a war beat.
He turned from the window and grabbed his hoodie from the chair near the bed. Pulling it on, he zipped it halfway and slipped his feet into a pair of worn-out slippers. He hesitated at the door of his apartment, his hand on the knob.
"Should I really do this?" he asked himself quietly. He had never been good at confrontation. He was not the kind of man who argued or raised his voice. Still, the idea of lying in bed for the rest of the night listening to the chaos above was worse.
He pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway.
The corridor was dim. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds. The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper that had once been cream-colored but now carried stains and marks from years of neglect. Ethan's footsteps echoed faintly as he walked toward the staircase.
As he climbed, the noise grew louder. The bass rattled the wooden rail under his hand. He climbed slowly, muttering to himself.
"Just going to tell them to turn it down. That's all. Nothing else. Be polite. Maybe they'll understand."
At the top of the stairs, he turned right. The door he wanted stood at the end of the hall. The number on it read 406. He frowned.
"Wait… mine is 306," he whispered. "I hope I'm not mixing things up."
He checked again. Yes, the sound was definitely coming from 406. The door shook faintly with each beat of the music. He took a deep breath, walked closer, and lifted his hand to knock. Instead, he pressed the doorbell.
The chime rang inside, a sharp note that pierced through the music.
Ethan stepped back and waited. His hands felt clammy. He suddenly questioned his decision. What if the people inside were drunk? What if they got angry? Maybe it was better to just leave.
He turned slightly, ready to walk away.
At that exact moment, the door swung open hard.
The edge struck Ethan square in the chest and shoulder. Pain shot through him, and he stumbled backward. His heel slipped on the floor, and he fell to the ground with a grunt, his elbow scraping against the tiles.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, holding his side.
When he looked up, a shadow blocked the doorway.
A tall, broad man stood there. His shoulders filled the frame, and his arms bulged with muscle beneath a plain white T-shirt. His jaw was square, and his eyes locked on Ethan with a look that carried no warmth.
The man's voice was deep and steady. "What the hell are you doing at my door?"
Ethan blinked rapidly, his heart hammering. He pushed himself halfway up, stammering. "I… I thought this was my door."
The man narrowed his eyes. "Your door?"
"Yes," Ethan said quickly. He pointed weakly down the hall. "I stay at 306. I must have been confused. I thought this was mine. It was a mistake. I'm sorry."
The man stepped closer. His presence was overwhelming. Ethan could smell faint sweat mixed with cologne. The man looked him up and down slowly, as if measuring him.
His voice came out in a low warning. "Listen carefully. If I ever see you standing at my door again, I'll crush you. Do you understand?"
Ethan's throat went dry. He nodded at once. "Yes. I understand. I swear it won't happen again."
The man did not move right away. He stood towering over Ethan, staring at him. Seconds passed in heavy silence. Finally, the man straightened and stepped back inside.
With one sharp movement, he slammed the door shut. The sound echoed through the hall, and the music resumed as if nothing had happened.
Ethan remained on the floor for a moment, breathing hard. His palms were sweaty. His shoulder still hurt from where the door had struck him. Slowly, he pulled himself up, dusted off his hoodie, and looked at the number on the door.
406.
He whispered to himself. "What's so hard in reducing the noise?"
He shook his head and turned away, his legs moving quickly down the hall. His own apartment door felt like safety when he reached it. He slipped inside, locked it firmly, and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath.
He whispered again. "That man meant it. He would have crushed me if I argued."
He walked to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted it to his lips. The water calmed him a little, but the unease remained.
Back in bed, he lay in silence. The music still vibrated faintly through the ceiling. He pulled the pillow over his head again, but it was not the sound that troubled him anymore. It was the man's eyes. Cold, sharp and serious.
He turned on his side and closed his eyes.
The night dragged on and sleep never came.