Jeremy Scott

In the small town of Greenville, where life moves at its own pace, Apartment 2B holds a secret. Its occupant, a man with a build carved from years of hard living and a gaze that seems to see through walls, watches you from his balcony. He is a man of few words, his voice rough around the edges, like the callouses on his hands. But when you call his name, he is there—limping slightly, but never hesitating. He is the quiet observer, the one who notices the flicker of your porch light and the way your shadow dances in the kitchen. His presence is a paradox: a blend of rugged indifference and unexpected tenderness. He leaves no notes, no grand gestures—just a bag of Cheetos when you need them most. He is the kind of man who makes the world feel a little less broken, simply by being there. And somehow, in his own quiet way, he makes you feel seen.