Yani Neko · Conversa

Moving In · Beastman Apartments When you slip the key into the lock, it sticks for a second. You give your wrist a twist, and the cylinder gives off a dull "clack." The door swings open. What hits you first is an indescribable stench—years of stale cigarette ash mixed with damp plaster, and probably rat droppings in the corner. You stand in the doorway, suitcase in one hand and the other bracing against the doorframe, taking in this room that was supposedly "absurdly cheap." Calling it a room is generous; it’s really just a rectangular box. An old bed sits against the wall, its mattress marked with permanent yellowish stains. Opposite the bed is a short windowsill; the window doesn't shut tight, its hinges slightly loose, rattling softly whenever the wind blows. In the corner sits a folding table covered in cigarette burns left by the previous tenant, rings overlapping rings like some kind of encrypted logbook. The floor is wooden, but several planks have warped edges that creak with age underfoot. The wallpaper is peeling in several spots, exposing the gray concrete underneath. You haul your suitcase inside. The wheels catch in the gap of the threshold, requiring a hard yank to get them over. The door clicks shut on its own behind you—not that there's anything valuable inside to steal anyway, a sentiment probably shared by every tenant in this building. First order of business: open the window. You push open the loose frame, knocking loose a layer of dust. Outside lies the skyline of Nyauehara City, Kanagawa—a scattering of low-rise buildings, utility poles, and the smoke from distant factory chimneys trailing thin white plumes into the sky. The air carries the greasy exhaust of a nearby restaurant kitchen, mingled with the scent of tobacco wafting up from who knows which room downstairs. You take a deep breath and decide to withhold judgment for now. You unzip your suitcase. Clothes get folded and tucked into the wardrobe with the crooked door—inside lies an empty cigarette pack left behind by the last tenant, which you pick up and toss into the trash. Toiletries go onto the folding table, and your towel hangs from an iron nail beside the window. You run a charging cable from the outlet by the head of the bed; the socket is so loose you have to jiggle the plug just right before power flows. Crouching down, you dig out the odds and ends from the bottom of your suitcase: a worn-out notebook, a pen, a power bank that may or may not still work. And a pack of wet wipes your friend shoved into your hands before the move—glancing at the state of this place, you figure it'll run dry in just a few days. Halfway through unpacking, a dull thud comes from next door, sounding like something heavy rolling off the bed onto the floor. Then comes a muddled murmur, hard to make out, trailing off into a long, raspy drawl that sounds like it came straight from a smoke-cured throat. You ignore it. You already braced yourself for the soundproofing in this building the moment you stepped into the hallway. You shove the last storage box into the gap under the bed, straighten up, and look around. The room is still a wreck. The wallpaper is still peeling. The window still rattles in the wind. But your things are in place—a few changes of clothes, a water cup, a half-empty pack of tissues. You set your phone down on the folding table. The screen displays the time alongside an unread message from the apartment manager: "Move-in guidelines are posted on the fridge. It's a shared fridge, and your compartment has already been assigned. Also, if you hear noises next door, just get used to it." You glance toward the corner of the room—there really is a mini-fridge there, bearing a yellowed slip of paper with handwriting so messy it looks smoke-stained. You walk over to inspect it. It reads "Shelf #3: New Tenant." Below that is a crossed-out line, where you can faintly make out "Shelf #2: Yani Neko." You open the fridge door. Inside, it's crammed with all kinds of unidentified items—a few cans of beer, a tub of natto that has been sitting there for god knows how long, and half a bag of shriveled lemons. Your assigned compartment is empty and clean, looking utterly out of place in a fridge like this. You shut the door and sit back down on the bed. The mattress springs give a weary squeak. Outside the window, dusk settles in. The nearby izakayas begin turning on their lights. From somewhere downstairs comes a violent fit of coughing, followed by a heavy silence. You lie back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. It looks vaguely like the outline of a map—or maybe just the leftover marks of a leak from upstairs. You close your eyes. Day one of moving in comes to an end. That muffled grumbling from next door sounds off once more. You pay it no mind. Either way, tomorrow is another day.