Chapter 2: The Siege of Apartment 4B

Chapter 2: The Siege of Apartment 4B

The second night was a carbon copy of the first. The third was a masterpiece of psychological warfare. By then, Liam’s apartment had transformed. The worn sofa was no longer a place of rest but a rack where he stretched his frayed nerves. The bedroom wasn't a haven for sleep but a resonant chamber, amplifying every beat, every shriek, every bottle smashing on the balcony next door. Sleep was a locked room for which he no longer had the key.

His performance at work was deteriorating. He’d zoned out during a critical patient assessment, misfiled important paperwork. His boss, a kind woman who normally valued his quiet competence, had pulled him aside. "Liam, is everything alright? You look like a ghost." He had mumbled something about not sleeping well, the understatement of the century. How could he explain that his home had become a torture chamber, that he was being methodically broken down by a relentless siege of bass and Bacardi?

On the evening of the third day, a grim determination settled over him. This had to end. He wasn't going to knock again. Politeness had failed. He needed evidence. He needed leverage.

He cracked his door open just enough to peer into the hallway. The scene was even more chaotic than before. A line of students, a dozen deep, snaked down the stairs from Apartment 4B. Near the door, a broad-shouldered young man was acting as a bouncer, checking names on a phone and collecting cash. Liam watched, his blood running cold, as a girl handed over a ten-euro note and was waved inside.

It wasn't a party. It was a business. A speakeasy for bored, privileged university students, operating in blatant defiance of a national lockdown. The sheer arrogance of it was breathtaking. They weren't just being noisy; they were running an illegal bar from a residential apartment.

As he was processing this, the door to apartment 5A, directly above him, creaked open. A man in his late twenties, with headphones slung around his neck and a cynical look in his eyes, leaned against the doorframe, surveying the scene below. He caught Liam’s gaze and gave a weary, knowing shake of his head.

"Finally figured out you weren't living next to a construction site?" the man said, his voice a low, wry murmur that barely carried over the din.

Liam stepped fully into the hallway. "It's a bar. They're charging entry."

"No kidding," the man replied, gesturing with his phone. "I'm Alex. Freelance graphic designer. Or I was, before my apartment became the VIP lounge for Ghent's premier illegal nightclub." He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I've been living on coffee and rage for three days."

A sudden kinship flared between them, the immediate camaraderie of soldiers sharing a trench. "Liam," he said, extending a hand. "Social worker. And I think rage is the only thing keeping my eyes open."

"I tried banging on the ceiling," Alex said. "They just turned the music up and started jumping in unison. I think it was a message."

A surge of drunken laughter erupted from the line as someone stumbled. The bouncer shoved him back into place with practiced ease. This was organized. This was deliberate.

"We have to do something," Liam said, the words feeling inadequate.

"I'm all ears," Alex replied, his cynical mask cracking to reveal a genuine desperation. "I'm one sleepless night away from rigging a fire hose to their balcony."

The desire for action, for any action, was a physical need. "Let's try talking to them again," Liam suggested, though the words tasted like ash in his mouth. "Together this time."

Alex shrugged. "Can't be worse than listening to this garbage."

They descended the half-flight of stairs and approached the bouncer. He was a mountain of muscle stuffed into a tight t-shirt, his expression a perfect blank of disinterest.

"Excuse me," Liam began, pitching his voice to be heard. "We live here. This is a residential building. You can't run a bar out of an apartment."

The bouncer didn't even look at them. He grunted towards the door. "Talk to Jessica. I'm just security."

"Then can you get Jessica?" Alex cut in, his patience already gone.

"She's busy," the bouncer grunted. A couple of guys in the line snickered.

"Look," Liam said, trying to appeal to a sense of reason that clearly wasn't there. "People are trying to sleep. We have jobs. This is illegal."

One of the guys in the line, his face flushed with alcohol, stepped forward. "Alright, dads, calm down. It's just a bit of fun. Don't you remember being young?"

"I remember having respect for other people," Alex shot back, his voice sharp. "And not running a public health hazard during a pandemic."

The student’s friends laughed, goading him on. "Whatever, grandpa. Go back to your knitting."

The humiliation was a hot flush on Liam's neck. They were a joke. Two tired, grumpy men trying to reason with a drunken mob that saw them as nothing more than an inconvenience. Defeated, they retreated up the stairs, the laughter of the students following them.

"Well, that was productive," Alex said, his fists clenched. "Plan B?"

"Plan B," Liam said, pulling out his phone, his thumb hovering over the emergency number. "We call the police. An illegal gathering during lockdown, serving alcohol for money? They have to shut it down."

Hope, fragile and tentative, returned. This was the official solution. The system they paid taxes for.

They made the call, explaining the situation clearly and calmly. Twenty minutes later, a police car crawled down their deserted street, its blue lights painting the building in silent, pulsing strokes. Two officers, looking as exhausted as Liam felt, entered the building.

The noise from 4B immediately dipped. They had been watching from the window.

Liam and Alex met the police in the hallway. As they explained the situation, the door to 4B opened. It was Jessica. Her hair was perfect, her expression a mask of wide-eyed innocence and concern. All traces of her earlier smirk were gone.

"Oh, officers, thank God you're here," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm so sorry about the noise. A few of my friends from my study group came over. We were just celebrating finishing a big project. But my neighbor here," she gestured vaguely at Liam, "he's been banging on our door, harassing us all night. It's been really frightening."

Liam stared, dumbfounded. The sheer audacity of the lie was stunning.

One of the officers, a world-weary man with a thick mustache, sighed. He glanced at the dozens of empty beer bottles visible in her recycling bin, then back at Jessica's perfectly composed face. He looked at Liam and Alex, two haggard men in sweatpants, and made a calculation.

"Miss, it's late. Just keep it down. No more guests," he said, his tone dismissive. He then turned to Liam and Alex. "And you two, this is a civil matter. Try to work it out before you call us again. We have actual emergencies to deal with."

He didn't even ask to look inside the apartment. He didn't ask about the money changing hands. He saw a pretty, well-spoken university student and two tired men, and he took the path of least resistance.

The officers turned and left. Liam and Alex stood in the hallway, speechless, the air thick with their shared humiliation. They were powerless. The system had failed them.

They watched from the hallway window as the police car pulled away, its blue lights disappearing around the corner. The second it was out of sight, a triumphant roar erupted from inside Apartment 4B. The music didn't just come back on. It exploded. The bass dropped with a vindictive, building-shaking force that rattled the windows in their frames.

It was louder than it had ever been. A sonic middle finger.

Liam met Alex’s gaze in the dim light of the hallway. The cynicism in Alex's eyes had hardened into something cold and sharp. The exhaustion in Liam's own had been burned away, replaced by a chilling clarity.

They had tried to be reasonable. They had tried to be civil. They had followed the rules and trusted the authorities. And they had been laughed at for their trouble.

Staring at the door of 4B, from which waves of mocking laughter now emanated, Liam felt a fundamental shift inside him. The patient, conflict-averse social worker was gone. The part of him that de-escalated and compromised was dead. All that was left was the cold, quiet hum of a man who had been pushed past his breaking point and had absolutely nothing left to lose.