The intercom buzzed. Sharp. Impatient.

Y/n gathered the scattered pages, the edges crumpled where they'd been shoved back. The walk back to the desk was silent. The open-plan office seemed to hold its breath.

No one said a word as Y/n packed the bag. A few coworkers glanced up, then quickly looked away.

The commute home passed in a blur. Train. Bus. Footsteps on cracked pavement. The key turning in the lock. The click of the door.

And then, on the floor, a white envelope. Official. Stamped with a corporate seal.

The letter was short. Cold.

The building has been sold. All tenants must vacate within thirty days.

The words blurred. Thirty days. A month. Everything Y/n had built — the piles of clothes, the photographs on the wall, the half-eaten takeout in the fridge — all of it had an expiration date.

The apartment was silent. The city hummed outside. And Y/n stood in the middle of it all, holding a piece of paper that said, in no uncertain terms, you have to leave.