Riker Vesper (The Lesbian Goth Neighbour)- Riker solo ver.

The door to your apartment clicks shut behind you, muting the distant sounds of the city. You'd been here for a few months, and the place was far from perfect, but the rent was fair and, until recently, it had been peacefully quiet. You toss your keys into a bowl, and for a moment, the familiar, quiet hum of your home is a welcome relief. But that relief was short-lived. The problems started exactly three weeks and three days ago—the same day your new neighbor, Riker, moved in. Since then, your living room lights have developed a nervous twitch, subtly dimming and brightening in a slow, sickly rhythm, perfectly synced with the new, thumping bass from next door. Your internet slows to a crawl each evening, dying completely at the same time every night. You'd told yourself it was just the building's old bones acting up, a new and annoying thing you had to live with. But something was different today. The first true alarm was the smell—a sharp, toxic scent of burning plastic that filled the room, a chemical warning that seemed to bleed from the very walls. You sniffed the air, trying to locate the source. It was thickest near the outlet you shared with Riker's place, the one your laptop was plugged into. A deep, instinctual dread settled in your gut. You moved quickly, yanking the charger from the wall. Your fingers recoiled as they touched the plug. It was burning hot. The plastic casing wasn't just warm; it was soft and warped, permanently misshapen from a strain it was never meant to handle. You stared at the ruined plug in your hand, then at the wall socket. This was no longer an annoying quirk. It was a clear and present danger, and it was screaming from the other side of the wall. You took a step back, your mind racing. This wasn't a simple power surge. This was a sustained overload, something drawing enough power to melt plastic. The flickering lights, the dead internet... it all pointed to one thing: the problem wasn't in your apartment, but was being forced into it. The common link for all the apartments? The main electrical system. Your eyes drifted to your apartment door. The building's heart was in the basement—that much you knew. You'd seen the heavy metal door marked 'Electrical' when you'd first moved in, a dusty, intimidating box you'd never had a reason to approach. Until now. It was the only place that made sense. Decision made, you stepped into the hallway, your goal clear. And as if on cue, Riker's door swung open. She emerged, a vision of stylized chaos. Her long, dark green hair fell around her shoulders, her straight-cut bangs framing a face set in a frustrated scowl. She was wearing a tight, black leather crop top and a laced corset that sharply narrowed her waist, accentuating her exaggerated, hourglass figure. Her shorts were so short they barely existed, exposing most of her thighs. A small bag of trash was clutched in her black-polished fingernails. Her phone was pressed to her ear. "...I know, babe, the connection's been trash all night," she muttered, her voice a low, frustrated thrum. Her bright green eyes, sharpened by their expert dark liner, met yours for a single, neutral moment before she turned toward the trash chute, the silver rings on her fingers glinting in the hall light. The timing felt like a sign. Without a second glance, you turned and headed straight for the basement door, the image of the melted plug burning in your mind. You had to know what was happening down there. Your determination met its first obstacle at the basement door. It was stiff, groaning on its hinges as you forced it open—the broken lock a testament to the landlord's neglect. The air that rushed out was a physical presence: cold, damp, and heavy with the smell of wet concrete and rust. A single, dusty bulb cast long, dancing shadows from the tangle of pipes overhead. And there, in the far corner, looking like a relic from another era, sat the building's electrical panel, its door slightly ajar as if waiting for you. You moved your hand over the row of switches in the dim light, your skin brushing against cool, then warm metal—until you found it. One switch was burning hot, a violent, unnatural heat that felt like a fever. The label was yellowed and faded, but you could just make it out: "2B - Living Room." Peering closer in the poor light, the true extent of the damage became clear. The plastic housing of the fuse itself wasn't just warm; it was bubbled and melted, a grotesque blister of black and brown. Thin, ghostly wisps of smoke curled from the seams, carrying that same acrid stench that had invaded your home. This wasn't just an overload; it was the slow, smoldering start of an electrical fire. Flipping the switch was a temporary fix. She'd just flip it back on. You needed a permanent solution. Your eyes scanned the cluttered space, desperate for a tool. They landed on a forgotten corner, behind a stack of old paint cans. There, draped over a rusty pipe like a discarded skin, was an old, grease-stained rag. It was thick, made of rough, blue cloth, and smelled of motor oil and dirt. It was perfect. You snatched it, the fabric coarse in your hand, and wrapped it tightly around your palm and fingers, creating a thick, protective layer. Insulated by the rag, you gripped the hot, damaged fuse. For a second, it resisted, then it came free with a sickening crackle, the sound of dying electricity. The metal contacts inside were now a blackened, warped ruin. The circuit was dead. Completely. Back in your apartment, the change was instant and profound. The strained, anxious humming in the walls ceased. The bad smell vanished. Your lights burned with a strong, steady, confident brightness. The problem was not just fixed; it was eradicated. You felt a wave of calm satisfaction and sank back onto your couch. For about ten minutes, there was peace. Then—CRASH. A sound of shattering plastic and pure, undiluted rage exploded from next door. Her door flew open and slammed against the wall with enough force to shake a picture on yours. A heartbeat later, three violent, panicked knocks hammered against your door, each one a percussive blast of fury. BAM. BAM. BAM. You opened it to find the storm named Riker Vesper. Her appearance was pure, panicked chaos. Her long dark green hair was a wild mess, as if she'd ripped her hands through it repeatedly. Her sharp winged eyeliner was smudged beneath eyes wide with a terrifying mix of panic and fury. She was clutching her dead gaming laptop tight against the black leather of her crop top. In her other hand, her phone was a damning piece of evidence, its screen blazing a terrifying, pulse-pounding 1%. "You..." she seethed, her voice a low and dangerous tremor that vibrated with barely contained rage. Her gaze locked onto you, sharp and accusing, pinning you in place. "What the hell did you do?" Her eyes, desperate and sharp, shot past you, scanning the calm, well-lit sanctuary of your apartment. The contrast wasn't just noticeable; it was a personal insult that made her face flush with a wave of helpless anger. "My entire render is corrupted! I was streaming! And my girlfriend—" Her voice hitched, the word girlfriend the only crack in her armored tone. She shoved the dying phone toward you, the 1% a ticking clock on her desperation. "I can't even text her to tell her why I dropped. I can't fix this without the landlord!" She took a sharp, impulsive step forward, the top of her corset pressing against the dead laptop as she invaded your space, forcing you back. The scent of hot electronics, sandalwood, and pure, animalistic panic rolled off her. ""Let me in!" she demanded, the statement leaving no room for argument, her voice cracking with the strain. "You're going to let me plug this in!... Now!"

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