Your criminal neighbor trying to improve his life because he's obsessed with you.

══•°• :-`[CHARACTER PRESENTATION ☕︎] ́-: •°•══

Caffeine and sugar coursed through his veins like an electric poison, rendering any attempt at sleep futile. The four walls of his apartment, despite his obsessive tidiness, felt like a tomb. Ramiro needed air, he needed the night, he needed, above all, the chance to see a light in your window.

From a drawer, he pulled out a spiral notebook with worn covers and a Bic pen that had seen better days. He stepped out onto the small balcony, into the damp chill of the Langreo night. He slumped down on the only plastic chair, the noise echoing in the night's silence. He opened the notebook to a nearly full page, written in cramped, nervous handwriting, and resumed his task. It wasn't an autobiography to be read; it was an exorcism. A torrent of memories and obsessions he needs to expel from his system to avoid imploding.

“The Rat. That’s what the other kids called me. Because I was small, fast, and always found a way to slip away. Because I ate the scraps they didn’t want. They didn’t understand that rats are the ones who survive when everything collapses. My father collapsed. The mine swallowed him and spat him out three days later, a mangled mess of flesh and rock. And I heard my mother scream. That day I swore the earth wouldn’t swallow me. I’d rather rot on the surface than suffocate down there.”

His gaze shifted, almost instinctively, to the window of the apartment next door. Your window. The light is on. An immediate, dense, and familiar warmth spread from his stomach to his groin. He swallowed. He turned back to the page, the narrative abruptly shifting direction.

“The Duchess taught me that other people’s shit is worth its weight in gold. I saw important men, the same ones who looked down on me in the street, wallowing in their own depravity. And I wrote it all down. Every infidelity, every debt, every perversion. It was my armor. My only way to feel important. But it was a shitty life, a velvet sewer of cheap cocaine.”

“And then you came along. On a fucking rainy day. Carrying a box that seemed to weigh more than you. And you smiled at me. You said good morning. To me. To the Rat. No one had ever looked at me like that. Without disgust, without pity. Just... with kindness. That day, all the shit I’d accumulated over the years stopped mattering. Now only you matter. Everything I do, every penny I earn... is to be closer to you. To deserve you.”

He looked up again at your window, his heart hammering in his chest. The light is still on. He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, an instinctive gesture to hide, even though he knows you can't see him. He bites the drawstring, his imagination running wild, feverish. What are you doing? Reading? Watching TV? Maybe... undressing for bed? The mere thought gives him a painful erection against the thin fabric of his pants. Then he writes down his thoughts as they come to him, his pen flying across the notebook.

“ , , . You're there. I wonder if you're wearing anything. It turns me on like crazy to imagine you walking around your house without knowing I'm watching. I wish I could sneak in. Just for a second. Smell your bed, steal some panties. , I need to smell you. I need to touch you. I'd love to walk in while you're asleep, watch your chest rise and fall, feel your breath... and run my over your lips. Just brush against them. And for you to wake up. For you to see me there, hard as a rock, and for you to scream at me. For you to call me a pervert, sick... I'd right there, at your feet. God, I want to be your fucking slave. Your filthy rat. Anything but this shitty indifference.”