Chapter 3
MAYA
MIDNIGHT. FUCKING MIDNIGHT.
The bass thrums through my floorboards again, rattling the coffee mug I'm clutching like a weapon. Three hours past his supposed bedtime, and this guy's still at it.
His note sits crumpled on my desk. All that polite, formal bullshit about cultural understanding and linguistic research. Right. Because Shakespeare at midnight counts as academic work.
"To be or not to be—" The voice booms through the wall, followed by that signature bass rumble that's been haunting my sleep for weeks.
That's it. Done.
I pluck up my coffee and storm out of 4C, bare feet slapping against cold hallway tiles. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead like they're having seizures. Perfect ambiance for confronting my nightmare neighbor.
The door to 4B stands slightly ajar. Of course it does. Who needs privacy when you're conducting a one-man theater festival?
I don't knock. Don't pause. Don't give myself time to second-guess this monumentally stupid decision.
I burst through his door like I'm conducting a raid.
"What the hell—"
But the chaos I expected isn't there.
No music equipment. No speakers the size of refrigerators. No sound system that would explain the bass notes currently vibrating in my bones.
Instead, I find a man pacing in precise circles around a coffee table, hands clasped behind his back.
Tall, really tall, with dark green skin that catches the lamplight.
His hair's pulled back in a neat knot, and he's wearing what looks like pajamas.
Actual flannel pajamas with a pattern of tiny books scattered across dark blue fabric.
An orc. In book-print pajamas. Reciting Hamlet.
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—"
He stops mid-sentence when he sees me standing in his doorway, coffee mug raised like I'm about to brain him with ceramic.
His eyes widen. Actually widen, like he's genuinely surprised to find an angry human woman in his living room at midnight. As if the note-under-the-door thing was supposed to solve everything.
"Ms. Ruiz."
His voice does that thing again, that deep, resonant quality that seems to come from somewhere in his chest rather than his throat. Now I understand why it carries so well through walls.
"Mr. Irontongue." I put emphasis on the title, matching his formal tone. "Lovely evening for Shakespeare, isn't it?"
He straightens, shoulders squaring like he's preparing for combat. Or maybe that's just his default posture. Hard to tell with orcs.
"I do apologize. I believed my evening studies concluded by ten-thirty."
"Studies." I gesture around his living room with my coffee mug. "This is what you call studies?"
The space is not what I expected. Clean.
Organized to the point of obsession. Books arranged by height and color on floor-to-ceiling shelves.
A desk that looks like it belongs in a library, complete with green banker's lamp and leather blotter.
Six notebooks stacked in perfect alignment, each labeled in different languages.
No sound equipment anywhere.
But the bass thrums again, vibrating up through the floor and into my teeth.
"What the hell is that?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"That!" I stomp my foot, and the vibration seems to respond, growing stronger. "That bass noise that's been driving me insane for three weeks!"
Ursak, Mr. Irontongue, looks genuinely confused. His thick brows draw together, creating deep lines across his forehead.
"I am uncertain what you are referring to. I conduct my linguistic practice using only vocal exercises. No musical instruments or electronic equipment."
"Then what—"
The bass note hits again, and this time I feel it in my heart. Like standing too close to a subwoofer at a concert, except there's no concert. Just me, an orc in pajamas, and whatever's making my internal organs vibrate.
"That. Right there. You're doing it right now."
Ursak follows my pointing finger to nothing. Empty air. But his expression shifts from confusion to something that might be understanding.
"Ah."
"Ah? That's your response? Ah?"
"Perhaps you should sit down, Ms. Ruiz."
"I don't want to sit down. I want you to explain why your voice sounds like a goddamn earthquake every time you practice your... your whatever this is."
I wave my hand at his notebook collection, accidentally sloshing coffee onto his hardwood floor. He flinches but doesn't move to clean it up.
"Orcish vocal cords operate differently than human ones," he says carefully. "Our speech produces harmonic frequencies that extend beyond the typical audible range."
"English, please."
"My voice creates sound waves you cannot consciously hear, but which your body experiences as physical vibration."
I observe him. Process this information while the bass note continues its assault on my nervous system.
"You're telling me you've been giving me full-body bass massages every morning and evening for three weeks, and you didn't know I could feel it?"
Something flickers across his face. Too quick to identify, but it makes his ears twitch.
"I was unaware the acoustic phenomena carried beyond my flat's walls."
"Acoustic phenomena." I set my coffee mug down on his perfect desk, deliberately off-center. "Right. Because that's a normal thing people say about their voices."
"I am not people, Ms. Ruiz. I am an orc."
The way he says it, flat, matter-of-fact, like he's correcting my pronunciation of his name, causes my heart to thump wildly. Like he's used to explaining this difference, used to being the odd one out.
Which doesn't excuse three weeks of inadvertent torture.
"Well, congratulations on your special vocal cords. They're ruining my life."
"That was never my intention."
"Your intention doesn't matter when I can't sleep, can't work, can't function because your voice is literally shaking my apartment apart."
He shifts his weight, and I notice how carefully he moves. Like he's constantly aware of taking up space, of potentially causing disruption.
"I require vocal practice to maintain my linguistic proficiency. My visa status depends upon academic performance."
"And I require sleep to maintain my sanity. My career depends upon functional brain cells."
We stare at each other across his obsessively organized living room. The bass note has stopped, leaving behind a silence that feels almost oppressive. Like the calm before a storm, except I'm not sure which of us is the storm.
"What do you suggest?" he asks finally.
"Soundproofing. Voice coaching. A different apartment building. I don't care, as long as it stops."
"Soundproofing is expensive. Voice coaching for orcish vocal patterns is... rare. And relocating would require lease termination fees I cannot afford."
Of course. Because simple solutions are apparently not allowed in my life.
"Then what? We just continue this arrangement where you torture me twice daily and I slowly lose my mind?"
"Perhaps we could establish a schedule. Designated hours for vocal practice that accommodate your work routine."
"I work from home. I don't have a routine. That's the point."
Something shifts in his expression again. Interest, maybe? Like I've revealed something unexpected.
"Freelance writing," he says. Not a question.
"How did you—" I stop. The note. I mentioned deadlines in my complaint. "Yes. Freelance writing. Which means irregular hours, last-minute assignments, and the desperate need for quiet when inspiration strikes."
"What type of writing?"
"Does it matter?"
"Curiosity."
The single word hangs between us, and I find myself studying his face more carefully. High cheekbones, strong jaw, eyes that are surprisingly expressive for someone who speaks like he's reading from a dictionary.
"Blog posts mostly. City living advice, restaurant reviews, the occasional travel piece when I can afford to actually travel."
"The City Living Hacks blog."
I nearly drop my coffee mug. "How do you know about my blog?"
His ears twitch again, and I swear there's color rising in his cheeks. Dark green skin makes it hard to tell, but something's definitely happening there.
"I may have researched local freelance writers. For professional networking purposes."
"You researched me?"
"I researched several local writers."
"But you know my blog specifically."
"Your subway navigation post proved particularly informative."
Holy shit. He reads my blog. My nightmare neighbor, the orc with the earthquake voice and the book pajamas, reads my actual work.
"That's deeply weird."
"I apologize if—"
"No, not weird bad. Just weird." I gesture vaguely around his library-living room. "You read lifestyle blogs?"
"I read extensively across multiple genres and languages. Cultural immersion aids linguistic development."
Right. Cultural immersion. Because that's definitely why someone reads posts about finding decent coffee at 6 AM.
The bass note thrums again, and I realize he's started pacing while we talked. Three steps to the window, pivot, three steps to the bookshelf, pivot. A precise pattern that probably looks random to him but screams anxiety to anyone who's ever struggled with deadlines.
"You're nervous."
"I am not nervous."
"You're pacing in a perfect rectangle and your voice is doing that bass thing more frequently."
He stops mid-step, awareness dawning across his features.
"The harmonic resonance increases with emotional stress."
"So you've been stress-practicing Shakespeare in the middle of the night."
"I have been experiencing difficulty with sleep lately."
"Why?"
The question slips out before I can stop it. Too personal for neighbors who've known each other for exactly one formal complaint and one midnight confrontation. But something about his careful movements, his obsessive organization, his goddamn book pajamas makes me want to understand.
"Immigration concerns," he says after a long pause. "Visa renewal requires demonstrated academic progress. Current political climate makes approval... uncertain."