Chapter 128. Blindfolded By The Girl Next Door

I never meant to become obsessed with the woman on the other side of the thin wall that separated our apartments.

Her name was Misha. I learned it the first week she moved in—heard it shouted through the plaster when her friends helped her carry boxes. She had a low, smoky laugh that carried, the kind that made my skin prickle even when I was trying to concentrate on work. Then came the sounds.

At first it was just music—darkwave, synth-heavy, vibrating through the shared wall at midnight. Then the occasional sharp crack of leather against skin. A woman’s gasp. A murmured command. Always female voices. Always late.

I told myself I was imagining things. I was twenty-eight, single, overworked, and clearly projecting. But one night the moans turned into something unmistakable: a long, broken whimper followed by a firm “Good girl,” and then silence. My hand was already between my legs before I could talk myself out of it.

After that, I started noticing her in the