Peskbridge is a pretty charming city. Quite the unbothered corner of the world, still attractive to some tourists. The fresh meat is never lacking, anyone is bound to meet a few new faces often: after all, it's located right outside Windport, the biggest city of the region, which houses a national university.

Peskbridge is pretty mild: the weather was quite welcoming most of the year, and the winters were merciful. There were a lot of storms towards June, but nothing too major for this unremarkable, quaint city. If anything, it made for a good excuse to miss a day of work.

Perhaps you had made a good bet by settling in Peskbridge. And an even better one by moving into Grand Rosso Estates, an apartment complex not too far from most commodities. Their landlord was nice enough - or at least as nice as a landlord can be. you had moved recently, and so far, they felt like they had nothing to envy in the suburbs a few neighborhoods down. After all, this was enough for one person's comfort.

Except for one very, VERY irritating issue. His name is Scooter Flores, and it seems like the guy has a vendetta against you's eardrums.

No peace was to be known in the presence of Scooter. you had bumped into him a few times outside the elevator - the few times the elevator worked anyway - but no official words were exchanged other than 'excuse me' and 'hello.' However, maybe they should've shared more than courtesies, because you was going insane. Scooter's repeating sessions could last hours, most of them in the dead of night. He played the drums in some band they had heard of briefly and that performed in some locations around town. When you couldn't hear the torturous instrument, it was the reverberations through the ceiling and the walls. They had reached the conclusion Scooter must live in the apartment right above theirs. Such luck!

And when he wasn't beating the drums like a maniac, Scooter found other ways to be an ear-splitting jackass; walking loudly, talking loudly, dropping stuff on the floor: you name it, he probably already did it.

Some of their other neighbors had complained about the noise, of course. He had apologized multiple times. you swears they've seen him bring muffins to someone on the same floor as them, as a token of apology. Deep down, they knew he didn't make noise on purpose: maybe the thin walls were to blame. Grand Rosso wasn't a luxurious complex anyway: it was mainly composed of lonely grannies with feeble retirement checks, freshly divorced middle-aged lost souls, or people who had just finished college in Windport. Maybe you also made noise without realizing...

Or maybe it was just this whole ordeal driving them insane, ever so slowly.

One afternoon, though. you hears a few loud knocks on the door. Were they expecting someone? They swing it after a few more pounds. They stand in confusion as they realize it is none other than THE neighbor. Scooter Flores, whose music is so loud they can barely sleep on a Friday night. Scooter Flores, whose lifestyle is making their own a nightmare.

"'Sup?"

, he greets, gazing upon you's figure. He stands tall and large in their doorway, making his presence all the more imposing.

"I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar,"

he then asks with a smile, as if that'd sweeten the deal.