"Sweetheart, just between us, if you can tolerate it, then tolerate it. Otherwise, leave as soon as you can."

I took my things from her, holding back my irritation, and thanked her.

Well, I wasn’t afraid. I had just spent my entire savings on that apartment.

Leave?

I let out a silent, cold laugh. It was the first time I’d ever heard of someone trying to force a psychiatric patient out of her own home.

When I got back upstairs, I saw a plastic bag hanging from my doorknob.

Inside was a dead rat. There was a note in the bag: "This is the first time. Next time, it’ll be alive."

I scoffed, tied the bag shut, and tossed it right back at Linda’s door. I’d dealt with plenty of rats before.

At eleven that night, I had just fallen asleep when the sound of a power drill jolted me awake. It was coming from across the hall: Unit 601.

The drilling stopped, only to be replaced by the pounding of a hammer.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The vibration made the glass of water on my nightstand tremble.

When I was discharged, Dr. Adrian Pike had repeatedly warned me to maintain good sleep. Now that I’d been woken up like this, a sharp headache started to build.

Suppressing my anger, I opened the door.

Their place was brightly lit. Linda’s husband, Carl Carver, was hammering nails into the wall. Linda stood in the middle of the living room, casually snacking on chips and directing him.

I knocked on her doorframe.

She turned and saw me, her eyes lighting up like she’d been waiting for this.

"It’s almost midnight," I said, frowning. "Can you continue this tomorrow? You’re keeping the whole floor awake."

She smiled, then called over her shoulder, "Hey, Carl, she says we’re disturbing the whole building."

Carl didn’t respond.

Linda turned back to me. "Listen, sweetheart, I’m not trying to make things difficult for you. If you won’t pay that $30,000, and my son still has a wedding to pay for, then we’ll just have to save money ourselves. Think of it as making up for what we didn’t get from you. If it’s noisy, that’s your problem. Deal with it."

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice, "Or pay up, and we stop immediately. We’ll even hire the best contractors and renovate everything quietly for you. How does that sound?"

Looking at her utterly self-righteous face, I laughed. Did she really think I was some easy target?

I pulled out my phone. "Then I’ll call the police."

Linda spat a piece of a chip straight at my face and sneered. "Go ahead. I’ll be waiting."

When the police arrived, Linda suddenly clutched her chest and collapsed into the hallway, her face pale. She pointed at me, gasping for breath.

"It’s her! She was banging on our door in the middle of the night, pounding on it for minutes! When I opened it, she was glaring at me like a lunatic. I have a heart condition. I can’t handle that kind of shock!"

Carl rushed out and, without warning, kicked me hard in the stomach. "If anything happens to my wife, I’m not letting you off!"

Officer Ryan Keller tried to intervene, but it was too late.

A sharp pain exploded in my abdomen, forcing me to double over. My vision flickered, going dark at the edges.

Officer Keller was about to reprimand Carl, but Linda immediately grabbed onto the officer, crying.

"Officer, you have to stand up for me! I’m a heart patient—I can’t take being frightened like that!"

Officer Keller turned to look at me.

My whole body trembled with anger, and my heart was racing. It was coming on.

I startled myself and quickly took a deep breath.

"Officer," I said through clenched teeth, "I have intermittent explosive disorder.

"It was diagnosed at a top hospital. I have the records at home, and you can verify anytime. My doctor specifically warned me that a lack of sleep can trigger episodes.

"I came to knock on their door because they were renovating," I said, pointing at the time on my phone. "They’ve been at it since eleven—drilling, hammering, moving furniture. The whole building can hear it. I couldn’t sleep, so I came to talk."

Carl shot to his feet. "What the hell are you talking about? We weren’t renovating at all tonight! We went to bed early! You’re the one who came banging on our door and scared my wife into a heart attack. That’s why we turned the lights on!"

Lying on the floor, Linda let out a perfectly timed groan. "Oh... my heart..."

"Officer, they’re setting me up," I argued, refusing to back down.

Officer Keller looked at them, then at me. He stepped inside their unit to take a look. When he came back out, his expression was complicated.

"There’s no sign of renovation in there," he said. "Are you sure the drilling came from their place?"

"Yes," I said firmly.

"But there’s no drill in use," he replied. "All their tools are put away."

My stomach sank.

Then it hit me. In the twenty minutes before the police arrived, they’d had more than enough time to hide everything.

Carl looked at me with a smug grin, like there was nothing I could do.

Officer Keller let out a sigh. "Miss, I understand how you feel, but situations like this are best resolved through mediation. You're neighbors. You’ll see each other every day. Letting things escalate won’t do anyone any good."

He gave my shoulder a firm pat. "That’s enough for tonight. All of you, take a step back and get some rest."

Officer Keller then left.

Linda pushed herself up off the floor and looked at me with satisfaction. "So? The police are gone. What else have you got?"

I dug my nails into my palm, using the pain to keep the fury inside me from boiling over.

She leaned against the doorframe, already cracking open a fresh bag of chips. "I’ve lived here eight years. You think I haven’t dealt with troublemakers before? I can handle a dozen girls like you without breaking a sweat."

"Photoshopping fake medical records? That’s hilarious." She laughed out loud, then tossed a package from inside her apartment toward me. "This yours? Don’t thank me. I brought it up for you."

It was the new outfit I had ordered. The packaging had been ripped open, and inside, the clothes had been cut to shreds, leaving nothing but scraps of fabric.

Linda clapped her hands, then stepped right onto the ruined clothes, laughing. "I’ve already spoken to the delivery guy. From now on, all your packages will come to me first.

"If anything goes missing or gets damaged, don’t blame me. Should’ve thought about that before buying your place so cheap and making us take the loss."

Again and again, she pushed further.

I stared at her, my gaze locked.

She frowned and snapped, "What are you looking at? My husband’s right inside."

"Nothing," I said through clenched teeth, my voice low. "Just reminding you of something. The doctor said people with my condition shouldn’t be provoked. If I get triggered, I lose control."

She let out a sharp laugh. "Lose control? And what exactly are you going to do with those skinny arms? I could knock you flat with a single slap."

I spoke softly, "You can try. The price of triggering me… isn’t something you can afford."

"Freak," she snapped, slamming the door shut.

She wasn’t wrong.

Something was wrong with me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have sent a grown man straight into the ICU during an episode.

During the two years I spent in the psychiatric hospital, even the doctors didn’t dare raise their voices at me.

And now that I was out, I had to put up with this?

I tamped my anger down and went back inside, splashing cold water on my face.

Then I remembered that I hadn’t taken my medication today.

I had just stepped into the living room.

Click.

Everything went dark.

I thought the power had gone out.

Feeling my way through the darkness, I reached for my phone in the living room. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my knee.

I had slammed into the edge of the table. Grimacing, I found my phone and turned on the flashlight, then walked over to the window.

Outside, two figures stood on the balcony of Unit 601.

Linda and Carl were standing on their balcony, looking straight at me.

I saw Linda smile and wave. Beside her, Carl held a pair of pliers. They had flipped my breaker.

The blood rushed to my head, my heartbeat accelerating.

Again?

I was really about to lose it.

I hurried back inside, found my medication, and swallowed it. Then I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.

The medicine started to take effect. My heartbeat slowly steadied, my limbs growing heavy.

In this world, reason doesn’t always matter. The doctor told me to avoid conflict. I had done everything I could tonight.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow, it would be their turn to panic.

Because I was out of medication.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of a drill. I reached for my phone—6:00 a.m.

I lay there for three seconds. The drilling didn’t stop. It only got louder.

I sat up, irritation rising uncontrollably. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. The person in the mirror looked terrible.

My heart started racing again. I needed to get my meds—stat.

When I opened the door, a pile of garbage blocked the entrance. Dirty liquid had seeped through the gap under the door, soaking into the entry rug and emitting a sour stench.

The door to 601 was shut, but faint laughter came from inside. I knew someone was watching through the peephole.

I took a deep breath and said nothing.

Squeezing past the pile of trash, I headed out. Getting the medication mattered more. Unfortunately, the nearest pharmacy didn’t carry what I needed.

When I got back and tried to unlock my door, the key wouldn’t go in.

I looked down at the keyhole. It was stuffed full with broken toothpicks jammed inside, packed tight. I crouched down and tried to pick them out with my fingers, but it was useless.

Linda. It had to be them again.

Anger surged through me. I stood up, took a deep breath, and forced it down.

Then I made a call and got a locksmith to come over. It took Mike Donnelly half an hour to dismantle the lock and replace it with a new one.

“Who’d do something this nasty?” Mike muttered while packing up his tools. “Stuffing toothpicks in a lock… What kind of grudge is that?”

I paid him, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Then I froze. Everything on the tables had been swept onto the floor.

The kitchen was even worse. Every bottle—oil, salt, vinegar—had been poured out across the floor in a mess.

I rushed into the bedroom.

A wooden box lay shattered on the ground. In the middle of it was white powder, scattered everywhere, obviously kicked around.

My mother’s ashes.

When she passed, the funeral home had given me that urn. She had told me to keep it, so I could look at it when I missed her.

I stood in the doorway, staring at the powder.

A sharp ringing filled my head. Then, nothing. The whole world went silent except for the abnormal pounding of my own heart.

My temples throbbed.

I walked over slowly and crouched down.

I reached out, then pulled my hand back.

I didn’t dare touch it. That was my mom. I used to keep her on my nightstand and look at her every night before bed. Sometimes I would talk to her.

"Mom, I found a job today."

"Mom, I bought an apartment. Got it $30,000 below market."

If she were still alive, she would’ve been so happy. Keeping her there made me feel like she was still with me.

Now, there was nothing left.

The pain in my chest was suffocating.

Linda.

The anger surged through my body, snapping the last thread of restraint.

'You pushed me to this. I don’t start trouble, but if someone crosses me, I won’t hold back. You destroyed the one thing I cared about most. You’re going to pay for it.'

I walked into the living room, opened my toolbox, and pulled out a large wrench.

I weighed it in my hand. Heavy.

Then I walked to Unit 601 and knocked on the door.

"Hi. I’m here to pay you back."