The cigarette smoke curled from Jimmy’s lips, a fleeting moment of peace against the grimy brick of the alley wall.

It was his third of the afternoon, a small rebellion against the stack of invoices waiting on his desk.

Then his phone buzzed against the worn denim of his jeans. He didn't need to look at the screen. Only one person called with that kind of relentless urgency.

"What's up, Chloe?" he answered, pinching the cigarette between his fingers.

"It's number five again," his sister's voice was a strained wire of frustration. "He's called the office three times this morning. Three. Says the AC is still out and it's turning his apartment into a sauna. He sounds… meticulous."

Jimmy sighed, "Meticulous. Great." He took a final, deep drag from the cigarette before he crushed it under the heel of his boot.

The buildings weren't really theirs, not in the way that felt like ownership. They were a legacy of rust and cracked plaster from their grandparents.

A multi-unit headache passed down like a genetic defect. He and Chloe were just the caretakers, the landlords of a property that bled them dry.

The building itself was a relic, a four-story walk-up squatting uncomfortably between a shuttered laundromat and a discount tire shop that seemed to have more tires piled outside than in.

It was wedged in a part of the city that progress had forgotten.

The rents were rock bottom, and they had to be. Any higher and the handful of tenants they had would scatter like cockroaches.

The income barely covered the property taxes and the constant, nagging maintenance.

"Alright, I'm on it," Jimmy grumbled. "I'll go talk to the 'meticulous' Mr. Five."

He swung by his truck, the passenger seat a jumble of receipts and fast-food wrappers, and grabbed the heavy-duty toolbox from the bed.

The thing weighed a ton. He carried it up the three flights of stairs to apartment five was a reminder of another job, another problem, another dollar spent just to keep the whole crumbling enterprise from collapsing.

The hallway smelled of dust and old cooking oil. He knocked on the door of number ffiv.

Silence.

He waited a beat, then knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

"Hello?" he called out. "Landlord! Here to look at the air conditioner!"

He heard a faint shuffling from inside. The lock clicked and the door swung inward just enough for a man to peer out.

He was about Jimmy’s age, maybe thirty, with dark hair that was a little too long and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the hallway.

The man just stared, his expression unreadable.

"I'm Jimmy," he said, shifting the weight of the toolbox. "My sister, Chloe, called. About your AC?"

The man’s gaze flickered from Jimmy’s face down to the toolbox and back up again.

He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod and opened the door wider to let him in. "Right. Come in."

The apartment was… empty. Not literally, but it felt that way.

A single, severe-looking sofa stood against one wall, a small coffee table in front of it holding nothing but a single book.

There were no pictures on the walls, no clutter, no sign that a person had been living and breathing in the space for the past three months.

It was less a home and more a holding cell.

It made Jimmy’s skin prickle.

"Bedroom's this way," the man said, his voice quiet, almost monotone.

He led Jimmy down a short hall into a room that was just as spartan.

A mattress on a simple metal frame, a laptop on a small desk, and the offending air conditioner unit, a yellowed, ancient box humming pathetically in the window.

Jimmy set his tools down with a thud. "Let's see the damage." He pried the front panel off, a cloud of dust and metallic funk puffing into his face.

He coughed, waving it away.

Inside, the machine’s guts were a mess of corroded coils and frayed wiring.

He poked around with a screwdriver, testing connections.

The tenant stood in the doorway, watching him, his arms crossed.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the scrape of metal on metal.

After ten minutes of probing, Jimmy leaned back on his heels and sighed. "Well, here's the problem," he said, turning to face the man.

"The compressor is shot. Completely seized up. It's not just a simple fix; the whole motor assembly is fried. These older models… they're just not built to last this long. The part will have to be ordered and replaced entirely."

He was already doing the math in his head. The part would cost him, maybe a hundred fifty bucks if he got it from his usual supplier.

He could eat the cost, but it would mean putting off the plumbing repair in number two.

As he thought it, a flicker of something ugly and opportunistic sparked in his mind.

He could mark it up. Say it was a specialized part, hard to find.

"How much will it be?" the man asked, his gaze steady and unnervingly direct. He hadn’t moved from the doorway.

That stare.

There was something about it, a nagging familiarity that Jimmy couldn't quite place.

He looked closer, past the glasses, at the shape of the man's face, the thin set of his mouth.

"Hey," Jimmy said. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar."

The man’s expression didn't change, but a flicker of something—recognition? amusement?—passed through his eyes.

"We went to high school together," he said simply. "Northwood High. I'm Dan."

And just like that, the tumblers clicked into place. Dan. Dan the Glasses. Dan with the perfect grades and the neatly pressed shirts.

The quiet kid who always sat in the front row, whose hand was always the first in the air.

The teacher's pet.

A cold, bitter memory washed over Jimmy.

Sophomore year. Biology class with Mr. Henderson.

Jimmy, bored out of his skull, had decided to skip the afternoon session to smoke cigarettes with his friends down by the creek.

He'd seen Dan in the hallway on his way out.

"Don't say anything, nerd," he'd hissed, giving Dan a little shove for good measure.

Dan had just clutched his books and scurried away.

The next day, Henderson had called him to his desk, a detention slip already filled out. "A little bird told me you weren't feeling well enough for my class yesterday, Mr. Miller,"

Jimmy had never doubted for a second who that little bird was.

Standing here, in front of the man who’d gotten him a week of detention, the man who embodied everything Jimmy hated about school—the rules, the authority, the smug satisfaction of the so-called smart kids—made his blood simmer.

"Right," Jimmy said. "Dan. I remember." He stood up, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. The decision was made. "The part. It's going to be expensive."

Dan raised an eyebrow. "How expensive?"

"It's a specialized compressor unit. They don't make this model anymore, so finding a compatible replacement is a nightmare," Jimmy lied.

He started inventing details, "It has to be sourced from a vintage parts dealer, and because of the specific voltage and coolant requirements for this housing, there's only one model that fits. They know they've got you over a barrel. It's gonna be… three hundred and fifty dollars. Plus labor, but I'll handle that."

Dan’s eyes widened slightly behind his glasses. "Three hundred and fifty? That seems… very high."

"Look, I can show you the supplier invoice when it comes in," Jimmy continued, doubling down. "It's the copper coils, the import fees, the whole nine yards. It is what it is. If you want AC, that's the price." He felt a grim satisfaction as he said it.

A little tax for being a rat.

Dan was silent for a long moment. Jimmy met his stare, a silent challenge passing between them.

Finally, Dan nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. He walked over to the desk, pulled a worn leather wallet from his back pocket, and counted out the cash.

Seven crisp fifty-dollar bills. He held them out to Jimmy.

Jimmy took the money, the paper feeling both hot and heavy in his palm. A part of him felt a surge of victory. Another, smaller part felt a pang of something he couldn't name.

He pocketed the cash. "I'll order the part today," he said,"Should be here in a week or two. I'll call you."

He was already planning on making it two weeks. Maybe three. Let the meticulous Mr. Five sweat it out for a while.

He picked up his toolbox and headed for the door, eager to be gone.

His hand was on the knob when Dan’s quiet voice stopped him.

"I never told Henderson, you know."

Jimmy froze, turning back slowly. Dan was still standing in the middle of the room, his hands shoved into his pockets.

His face was completely devoid of emotion.

"I wasn't a rat," he said. "Never have been."

Then he simply turned and walked back into the bedroom, leaving Jimmy standing alone in the sparse living room.

The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

That night, Jimmy dreamt he was fifteen again, the rough fabric of his high school jacket scratching his neck.

He was in the crowded, noisy hallway of Northwood High, and Dan the Glasses was in front of him, clutching a stack of books to his chest.

But in the dream, the casual shove became a violent, deliberate act. He saw his own hands, young and angry, push Dan with all his might.

He watched the nerd stumble backward, his glasses flying off his face, his body hitting the lockers with a sickening crack before crumpling to the floor.

He saw Dan’s arm bend at an angle it shouldn't, and he heard the boy's sharp, broken cry of pain.

The dream was so vivid, so real, that Jimmy woke up with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs.