เรื่องสั้นแนว Feel-Good Story และนิยาย Neighbourhood Revenge

"Why is it always you? Where the hell is the owner of this place?" Sophie Miller, the woman who'd just moved in next door, saw me covered in dirt and assumed I was the hired help, paid to watch the house. She held a public fundraiser just to humiliate me and forced me into a maid's uniform to serve her guests. She even brought in a bulldozer to knock down the wall and flatten the rare flowers I'd spent four years growing. All so she could take over my yard for a private party. They thought the owner of this estate, worth more than a hundred million dollars, was far away in Europe. Her husband was desperate to impress the sole heir to a ten-billion-dollar empire. They had no idea who she was. She was standing right in front of them, wiping the dirt off her hands.

The day after I moved into my new place, I baked a batch of my best brownies and went to introduce myself to the neighbor downstairs. As soon as she opened the door, a middle-aged woman gave me a long look before shouting into the apartment. "Honey, come here! This is the girl who was tap-dancing upstairs at three in the morning!" I froze. "There must be a mistake. I worked late last night. I didn't even come home." She pulled out her phone and showed me the residents' group chat. "Everyone's talking about it. Someone said they saw you dancing around your living room in red high heels. Building management has already come upstairs three times!" I was so angry my hands were shaking. I was ready to call the police and ask them to check the security cameras. Before I could, my boyfriend caught my arm. "Just let it go," he said. "We just moved in. If we get on her bad side, it'll only make life harder. Just say you're sorry and move on." I looked at his face. He had that same scared, anything-to-keep-the-peace look. Perfect. We hadn't even had our housewarming party yet, and I already had the worst combination possible—a nightmare neighbor and a cowardly boyfriend.

The first day we moved into our new place, the girl next door, who lived alone, came over with red-rimmed eyes and begged my son to fix the broken water heater in her room. In my previous life, I felt sorry for her, so young and already without parents, so I sent my son over to help. That night her room caught fire. She stumbled out and sobbed to everyone who'd listen. "Her son tried to rape me, and when he couldn't, he set the fire to burn me alive and silence me!" The day the verdict came down, my son's bright future as a pilot was destroyed in an instant, and he became a murderer the whole internet spat on. In prison, my son couldn't take the torture and the bullying, and he ended his own life by throwing himself against a wall. To pay off the debts, I worked three jobs, until one night a heart attack dropped me dead on the street. She, meanwhile, played the fire survivor and launched a crowdfunding campaign, raised three hundred thousand dollars, and paid cash for an apartment downtown. Now, living this life all over again, the girl stood there with red eyes, her voice small and timid. "Ma'am, I'm scared of electricity. Could your son help me out?" I pulled my son back inside, my face blank. "There's a repair number on the wall. The service call is twenty-five dollars."

In my dormitory, there was a poor student. With all the good intentions in the world, my roommates and I were eager to help her, not realizing how much our help would cost. She wasn't impressed by the hairdryer we offered, insisting on borrowing a branded one instead. The skincare products we gave her? They were applied to her feet. And, as if that wasn't enough, she specifically demanded luxury face cream. One day, I lent her my tablet to look up some information, and to my surprise, she secretly opened up my gaming app, spent all the diamonds and reward tickets I had saved for half a year, and left me empty-handed. When I asked her to pay me back, she turned the tables and posted a public message online, accusing me. "I'm just a poor student from the countryside, never played games before. Are the materials in the game really worth this much?" Before I knew it, the comment section was flooded with criticisms of me. In a fit of frustration, I fired back with a post of my own, throwing her into the spotlight. "Well, I suppose you've never tasted the bitterness of being cyberbullied, have you?"

Someone @'d me on Nextdoor. "Hey, penthouse girl. You're single. What do you need a whole rooftop garden for? My husband's throwing a party. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you two hundred bucks a month for upkeep. You'll make a couple hundred for doing jack shit. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. It was a joke. I was Don Ricci's heir, groomed to run the South Side. But I traded that life for a paintbrush. This apartment was my sanctuary, my quiet place. That rooftop garden wasn't some building perk. It was mine. I'd paid half a million cash for the deed when I bought the place. I turned it into my sunroom studio. And now someone thinks they can have it for two hundred bucks a month? I replied with two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the building manager and two security guards at my door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing community resources." And now, for the sake of "neighborly harmony," they were demanding my keys. Fine. They wanted to throw civility out the window? They were about to learn what real power felt like.