Brighton Ridge moved through its morning with the steady pace of a city that had work to do. Cars rolled past the crosswalk, the bakery on the corner opened its doors, and a delivery truck blocked one lane while the driver unloaded boxes. Liam Carter stood outside his apartment building holding a cardboard tray with two coffees, the paper handle digging into his fingers. He had arrived in the city less than twenty-four hours ago, and the air still smelled unfamiliar.

He checked the number over the entrance. Unit 3B. He took a drink from one of the coffees, burned his tongue, and let out a short breath. The listing had mentioned “historic charm,” which now meant chipped paint, narrow stairs, and a lobby that smelled like dust and mail. He hadn’t moved here for the building. He had moved because staying where he was had turned into repeating the same week over and over.

Inside, the staircase creaked as he went up. He was halfway to the third floor when a metallic clatter echoed above him. Keys bounced down a few steps and came to rest near his shoes.

A woman hurried down after them. She leaned over, grabbed the keys, and straightened up in one motion. Messenger bag across her chest, gray sweatshirt, dark jeans, hair pulled back like she’d tied it on her way out the door. She paused when she saw him.

“Hey,” she said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to throw hardware at you.”

“It’s okay,” Liam said. “No damage.”

“Good to know.” She clipped the keys back onto her bag. “First morning in the building?”

“Second,” he said. “I moved in yesterday. Three B.”

She nodded once. “Makes sense. I heard someone fighting with boxes.”

“That was me,” he said. “The boxes won.”

A quick smile crossed her face. “I’m on two. I was running late, dropped my keys, and now I’m even later. So it’s going great.”

Her tone was dry but calm, like this was just one more thing to deal with.

Liam lifted the tray slightly. “I have backup caffeine if that helps.”

“It always helps,” she said, “but if I stop I’m going to miss my bus, and I need at least one thing to be on time today.”

“Fair.”

She shifted to move past him, then hesitated for half a beat.

“Welcome to the building,” she said. “If the pipes make weird sounds at night, that’s normal. No one’s fixed it.”

“Good to know.”

She gave a short nod and headed down the stairs. Liam watched her go for a second, then continued to the third floor. In his apartment, boxes stood in uneven stacks. A suitcase lay open on the floor, clothes half-folded inside. The space felt temporary, as if it belonged to someone else.

He set one coffee on the counter for later, finished the other, and checked his phone. A reminder from his new supervisor, Miranda: 10 a.m. briefing. Be ready to discuss initial thoughts.

He didn’t have initial thoughts yet. He barely knew how the coffee machine in the lobby worked. Still, he showered, found a shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled, and pulled on clean jeans. On his way out, he stepped around a box labeled KITCHEN that probably held everything he needed to cook real food.

Outside, the sidewalks were filling. People walked with the focused expression of those who knew exactly when they had to be somewhere. Liam joined the flow and headed toward the bus stop at the end of the block.

He was almost there when he heard a clipped complaint behind him.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He turned. The same woman from the stairs stood under the shelter, holding a paper cup with its lid displaced. A brown line of coffee stained her sleeve. She stared at it for a second.

“I just bought this,” she said.

Liam stopped a few feet away. “Rough start keeps going?”

“Pretty much.” She tried to press the lid down, then gave up and set the cup on the trash can. “You ever have one of those mornings where everything takes a step to the left?”

“Today’s in the running,” he said. “First day at a new job.”

She looked up. “Where?”

“Carter Advertising.”

“I know that one,” she said. “Big red billboards. A lot of capital letters.”

“Those campaigns weren’t mine,” he said.

“Good to hear.” She adjusted the strap of her bag. “What do you do there?”

“Creative strategy. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly?”

“Feels strange saying it when I haven’t done anything yet.”

“That’s fair.” She nodded once. “I’m in design. Different company. Same type of clients.”

The bus turned the corner and pulled up to the curb. She took a step toward the doors, then glanced back.

“I’m Zoey,” she said.

“Liam.”

“Hope the first day doesn’t make you regret moving.”

“I’ll take neutral as a win.”

That seemed to land with her. She gave a small, real smile and climbed onto the bus. The doors closed behind her. Liam checked the time again and kept walking.

The Carter Advertising office took up part of a renovated warehouse. At the front desk, he gave his name, got a temporary badge, and followed the signs to the fifth floor. When the elevator doors opened, a man in a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves raised a hand.

“You must be Liam,” the man said. “Caleb Turner. Client strategy. I was told to collect you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Liam said.

“First day. How’s it going so far?”

“I haven’t broken anything yet.”

“That’s a solid start.” Caleb gestured down the hall. “Miranda’s in the briefing room. She moves fast, but she’s fair. Just don’t check your email while she’s talking. She sees everything.”

They stepped into a room with a long table and a wall-mounted screen. A handful of people sat with laptops open. Miranda, early forties with sharp features and a neatly tied back ponytail, stood at the front with a tablet in hand.

“Morning,” she said. “Let’s get going. But first—Liam, right?” She glanced at him. “Everyone, this is Liam Carter, our new creative strategist.”

A few people nodded at him.

“He’ll be working with us on the Mitchell account,” Miranda continued. “We’re in early stages, which is good timing.”

Liam felt his attention sharpen. “Mitchell?”

“Yes,” Miranda said. “Any issue?”

“No,” he said. “Just making sure I heard you.”

She moved on, tapping the screen to bring up the first slide. A logo appeared, followed by bullet points about tone, goals, and target audience. Liam focused on the information. Every few lines, his thoughts drifted back to the bus stop and the way Zoey had said she worked in design.

Mitchell was a common name. It might mean nothing. For now, the account was just a project.

Miranda outlined the schedule, the next few weeks full of research, concepts, and client calls. “Liam,” she said near the end, “I want your first take on positioning by Friday. Work with Caleb. Ask questions if you need to.”

“Got it,” he said.

Caleb leaned over. “I’ll send you the background deck after this,” he said quietly. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

The meeting lasted about an hour. When it ended, chairs scraped back and people filed out. Caleb walked with Liam toward a cluster of desks near the windows.

“That one’s yours,” Caleb said, pointing to an empty workstation. “Computer should be ready. If it isn’t, IT is two doors down pretending to be overloaded.”

“Thanks,” Liam said.

“No problem. If you need a lunch spot, there’s a place on Ninth that does decent sandwiches. I’ll send you the name.”

Caleb left him with a quick wave. Liam sat down, logged into the computer, and opened his email. There was a message from HR, a calendar invite for three more meetings, and a link from Caleb labeled MITCHELL BACKGROUND. He clicked it and scrolled through market notes and sample ads.

He read for a while, underlining phrases and jotting a few questions on a notepad. The work was familiar. The office wasn’t. Focusing on the campaign gave him something solid to hold onto.

By late afternoon, his brain felt full. He shut down the computer, said a brief goodbye to Caleb, and rode the elevator down. Outside, the light had shifted. The streets weren’t as busy as they had been that morning.

He took the bus back toward his neighborhood and walked the last block to his building. Inside, the stairwell seemed less foreign than it had at sunrise. On the second floor, a door closed and footsteps approached. Zoey turned the corner with a grocery bag in hand.

She slowed when she saw him. “Hey. You made it back.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Day one complete.”

“How was it?”

“A lot of information,” he said. “But it seems like a decent place.”

“That’s better than the alternative.”

He nodded toward the bag. “Stocking up?”

“Trying to. I’ve eaten takeout four nights in a row,” she said. “Figured I should at least pretend I use my kitchen.”

“Sounds familiar.”

She shifted the bag to her other hand. “So, did you hate it?”

“The job?” he said. “No. Not yet.”

“Good sign.”

They stood there for a moment, neither moving.

“Well,” she said, lifting the bag a little, “I should put this away before anything melts.”

“Yeah. I should figure out what’s in half my boxes.”

“Start with the one marked kitchen,” she said. “Otherwise you’ll end up eating cereal out of a mug.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She started toward her door, then paused again. “If your hot water takes forever, turn the handle all the way and then back a little. It’s the only way it works.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll try that.”

“See you around, Liam.”

“See you.”

She walked down the hall. He continued up to the third floor and unlocked his door. The apartment still looked like a storage unit, but the silence felt different now. He set his bag down, opened the box labeled KITCHEN, and pulled out a stack of plates wrapped in newspaper.

He put them away one by one. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.