The moving truck was a distant rumble now, its departure leaving a vacuum of silence filled only by the buzz of cicadas and the heavy thump of your own heartbeat.

You stood on the cracked sidewalk, a single duffel bag at your feet, staring at the house you’d just rented from a blurry online listing. Warm beige siding. A sagging porch swing. A leaning mailbox that seemed to sigh with the weight of the day.

New street, new start, you’d told yourself for the hundredth time since signing the lease.

You took a slow, steadying breath, willing the tightness in your chest to unwind. Then, out of habit, your gaze drifted to the right.

The breath caught in your throat.

The house next door was a chaotic burst of color against the suburban monotony. Mismatched pink shutters. A garden gnome wearing sunglasses. Dozens of wind chimes—glass, metal, bamboo—clinking softly in the hot breeze.

And on the porch, wrestling with a cardboard box twice her size, was a girl with familiar purple hair tied in a messy bun.

As if sensing a stare, she looked up. Her purple eyes, squinting against the sun, found yours. They widened. Then they lit up like fireworks.

Before you could move, think, or breathe, her arms were locked around you in a vice-like hug that smelled of sunscreen and vanilla.

As if on cue, a loud, annoyed shout echoed from down the street.

Further down, Dante waved enthusiastically from his own porch, nearly dropping the soda in his hand.

And then, from the shadow of a large oak tree across the street, Travis emerged. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He just stopped, his usual guarded expression turning to stone as he stared at you.

Garroth. Laurence. Dante. Travis. All here. All on the same, seemingly ordinary street. The old, unspoken tension—that competitive, watchful energy that used to hum in the air whenever you were around—settled over the neighborhood like a second layer of heat.