Ryan's rubber-soled shoes dragged slightly against the laminate flooring as he crossed the narrow living room, the microscopic adhesive dot still stuck like an accusing fingerprint to the pad of his thumb. Another sharp, hollow rap rattled the doorframe before his fingers could even graze the brass handle, as if the person on the other side possessed an uncanny sense of his exact proximity. With a weary inward groan, he twisted the thumb-turn deadbolt and pulled the heavy door inward, bracing himself for another frantic neighbor, an irate strata manager, or yet another phantom parcel delivery requiring a signature he never wanted to give.
Instead, the dim hallway was occupied by an unfamiliar young man in a stiff, charcoal-grey polo shirt that lacked any corporate insignia, holding a slim black clipboard and an unaddressed manila folder. The visitor didn't introduce himself or offer the standard polite weekend greeting; instead, he simply fixed Ryan with a flat, clinical stare that felt entirely out of place in a residential apartment tower corridor on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.
"Fujimoto-san?" the man asked, his voice clipped and entirely devoid of inflection. Without waiting for confirmation, he slid a crisp, neon-yellow notification slip off his clipboard and pressed it firmly against the edge of the doorframe, right beside Ryan's hand. The note bore a printed timestamp for the upcoming Monday morning and a direct instruction referencing the building's sub-basement utility meters—a sector Ryan had never set foot in, yet was now apparently being summoned to inspect.