Chapter 1

My Parking Spot, My Fury

My parking spot. Karen claimed it every single day.

She even ranted in the community SnapChat, calling me "selfish" right to my face.

I'd had enough. It was time for her to taste true despair.

I bought a junk car and personally welded it into my parking spot.

Now, that spot was mine, and mine alone, forever.

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Seven PM. The city was fractured by a sudden downpour.

Rain lashed against the car windows, a relentless drumming, like countless tiny ice needles piercing my eardrums.

I drove slowly, navigating into the apartment complex's underground garage.

The warm yellow lights blurred in the damp air, casting fuzzy patches of light on the cold concrete.

Turning the final corner, my heart plummeted.

That familiar spot. My deeded parking spot, B-77, the one I'd shelled out three hundred grand for.

Again, it was occupied by a white BMW X5.

The car sat there like a fat, arrogant white beast, defiantly sprawled across my space.

Its front end was aggressively angled outwards, as if proclaiming ownership.

It was Karen's car, my upstairs neighbor.

And this was the fourth time in two weeks she’d treated my private space like her personal, free parking lot.

The air in my car suddenly felt thin. It was like a boulder was pressing down on my chest, each breath a dull ache.

I switched off the engine. All that remained was the drumbeat of rain on the roof and the escalating thump of my own heart.

I grabbed my phone, fingers whitening from the grip, and tapped on her familiar profile picture.

I snapped a photo of her car brazenly occupying my spot, B-77 clearly visible in the frame, and sent it.

Swallowing the fiery anger in my throat, I typed out the message, word for word:

"Karen, please move your car."

Sent.

"Read" immediately popped up in small gray letters on the screen.

I stared at those four letters, waiting.

One minute.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

The phone screen dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again. The chat box remained eerily silent.

No reply.

I took a deep breath and dialed her number.

"Beep... beep... beep..."

After a dozen rings, the call was curtly disconnected.

In that instant, I could almost picture Karen's annoyed expression on the other end.

Not giving up, I dialed a second time.

This time, it rang twice before being cut off again.

The third time, it went straight to voicemail.

"Hello, the number you have dialed is currently busy..."

The cold, automated voice seemed to mock my futile efforts.

I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and leaned back heavily into the headrest, staring up at the ceiling.

The garage's damp, cold air, mingled with the smell of exhaust and dust, seeped in through the window cracks, enveloping me.

I gave up.

I restarted the car, turned around, and drove out of the garage, heading for the hourly outdoor parking lot outside the complex.

After parking, I didn't bother with an umbrella.

The icy rain instantly soaked my hair and shirt, clinging to my skin and making me shiver.

I walked home step by agonizing step, the streetlights stretching my shadow long and distorted.

Every step felt like I was treading on broken glass.

Entering the building, the elevator doors slowly opened.

Just as I was about to step inside, I saw Karen's latest Ins update.

A photo of her, her husband Chad, and their ten-year-old son, all beaming, gathered around a table piled high with king crab and Boston lobsters.

The location was tagged at the city's most upscale seafood restaurant.

The caption read:

"Hard work pays off! Enjoying the good life!"

In the picture, Karen, wearing immaculate makeup, held a glass of red wine, smiling charmingly at the camera.

A wave of nausea hit me.

Her "good life" was built on treating my parking spot like a trash can and my goodwill like dirt.

Fury surged through my veins like molten lava, almost erupting from my eyes.

But I didn't let it.

I simply walked into the elevator with a blank expression and pressed my floor.

The mirrored elevator walls reflected my wet, pathetic reflection, and my bloodless face.

I decided to give her one last chance to be decent.

I went to the property management office.

Mr. Henderson, the property manager, was a smarmy man in his forties with a noticeable beer belly, plastering on a fake smile.

"Alex, this... this is a private dispute between residents. It's hard for us to intervene forcibly."

He rubbed his hands together, looking troubled.

"I bought a deeded parking spot. I have the title. Her actions are an infringement."

My voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Yes, yes, we know. We'll call her to mediate, we'll definitely mediate."

He dialed Karen's number right in front of me.

This time, the call connected.

I could clearly hear Karen's sharp, impatient voice from the other end, mixed with the restaurant's clamor and her son's shouting.

"Hello! Who is this?! So annoying!"

Mr. Henderson discreetly lowered the speaker volume, then spoke into the phone with a fawning smile:

"Karen, it's Mr. Henderson from property management. The owner of B-77, Alex, said you're parked in his spot. Would it be convenient for you to move your car?"

Silence for a few seconds on the other end, then an even more grating shriek.

"Just parking for a bit! What's with the rush? Is he trying to kill me?! Tell him I'll move it after dinner! Will his crappy car die if it waits a little? Being so selfish, he'll die early!"

Her voice was so loud that even I, standing beside him, heard every word clearly.

Mr. Henderson's face turned beet red, and he looked at me awkwardly.

I ignored him, took his phone, and spoke into the receiver in a voice so cold it sounded alien even to me:

"Ms. Smith, I'm informing you one more time. That is my private, deeded parking spot, which I paid three hundred thousand dollars for. It's not a public area. Please move your car immediately."

"Who are you?! You—"

She didn't finish her sentence. I pressed the hang-up button.

I handed the phone back to Mr. Henderson and turned to leave.

Back home, I stripped off my soaked clothes and stood under the shower.

The scalding hot water washed over my body, but couldn't wash away the bone-deep chill in my heart.

Just then, my phone vibrated furiously in the living room.

Messages from the community group chat.

I dried myself, walked out, and picked up my phone.

Tapping open "Happy Homeowners," the SnapChat group with 500 members, Karen's name was flashing frantically on the screen.

She had sent a 60-second voice message.

I tapped play.

Her tearful voice filled the quiet room.

"Everyone, please be my judge! I just temporarily parked in a neighbor's spot, and he's being so persistent! Calling me, finding the property manager—a grown man harassing a woman, is there no justice?!"

I watched as some unsuspecting neighbors in the chat began to echo her, accusing me of "going too far" and being "unreasonable."

I clenched my phone.

The last flicker of warmth in my eyes, behind the lenses, was completely extinguished.

Any last shred of decency, she had shredded herself.

Fine.

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