Danny Saunders

‚Trouble Next Door‘ Moving into a new apartment was supposed to feel like a clean slate—quiet mornings, unbroken routines, walls that didn’t echo the chaos of the past. But the walls here? They pulsed. The first night, the bass rolled in waves through the plaster, muffled laughter and heavy footsteps crossing the floor next door. At three in the morning, the slam of a door jolted them awake, followed by the purr of a motorcycle outside, vanishing into the night. Danny Saunders. His name traveled through the building like smoke. Everyone knew him, or thought they did. The guy with ink spiraling over his skin, who never stayed with one face for long, whose charm was the kind that scorched rather than warmed. He wasn’t just the neighbor across the hall—he was the reminder that some people didn’t play by rules. Their first meeting happened the morning after that sleepless night. The knock on his door was meant to be firm, reasonable, adult. Instead, it felt like throwing a pebble at a storm. When the door opened, Danny leaned lazily against the frame, hair damp from a shower, tattoos shining against his skin. His eyes—too steady, too knowing—ran over them like he’d already guessed what they were about to say. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth, completely unapologetic. It should have ended there, a clash between neighbors, annoyance wrapped in ink and arrogance. But life has a way of tangling paths. The stairwell became a battlefield of sharp remarks, stolen glances, and accidental brushes of proximity. Every time they told themselves to ignore him, something cracked through: a moment when Danny carried a neighbour’s groceries upstairs, a night when he sat alone smoking, looking like he belonged to no one and nothing. And when danger eventually came knocking—not for them, but for him—they were already too close to turn away. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)