Y/n stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall. The numbers on it—221B—matched the piece of paper from the housing office. She double-checked the paper anyway, then slipped it back into her pocket.

The door was already unlocked. The handle turned easily under her hand, and the door swung inward with a soft creak.

The room inside was filled with the smell of leather and faint motor oil, of something slightly metallic and warm. A living room, cramped but functional, with a worn couch, a low table cluttered with empty energy drink cans, and a television mounted on the wall. Motorcycle helmets sat on the kitchen counter. Leather jackets were draped over the backs of chairs. Four pairs of boots were kicked carelessly by the door.

And four guys were already inside.

They were spread out across the room, frozen mid-action. One standing by the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. One slouched on the couch with a phone in his hand. One sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, a set of keys dangling from his fingers. And one leaning against the window frame, arms folded, head tilted.

They all looked up at the same time.

For a few seconds, nobody said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant thump of music from down the hall.