I had just clipped the last shirt onto the drying rack when the doorbell rang. Little Zhao from property management stood at the door, pinching a complaint form in his hand. "Ms. Davis, someone reported you for unauthorized drying again." I poked my head out to look at the balcony. Three shirts, two pairs of pants, one bedsheet. The drying rack was provided by the developer, and the balcony was enclosed. "What's unauthorized about it?" Little Zhao scratched his head and lowered his voice: "Ms. Money on the fifth floor says the bedsheet you hung is too big. People can see it from downstairs, and it affects the aesthetic of the community." I live on the seventh floor with an enclosed balcony. Martha Money lives on the fifth floor. What angle did she have to twist her neck to see what I was drying? "Ms. Davis, please do me a favor and take it down." Little Zhao had a bitter expression. "She can call twelve times a day." Twelve times. I silently took down the shirts and the pants. The bedsheet was too big; I had to fold it twice to stuff it into the basin. That night, I spread the wet clothes over the back of a chair in my bedroom and closed the window. The whole room felt damp. Martha Money didn't know that the solar energy system on the roof of this very building she complained about— I designed it. And I paid for it out of my own pocket. 01 After Little Zhao left, I tossed the complaint form into a drawer. There were already seven forms accumulated in that drawer. The earliest one was from three months ago. The content: Seventh-floor resident placed a shoe rack in the public corridor, obstructing passage. My shoe rack is 12 inches wide. The corridor is 6 feet wide. Property management posted a rectification notice, and I moved the shoe rack inside. The second one, two months ago. Content: Seventh-floor resident keeps a pet, suspected of not having a dog license. I have a cat. Cats don't need dog licenses. But property management still knocked on my door and asked me to show a "pet registration certificate." I spent half a day going to the community center to get the certificate. The third one, a month and a half ago. Content: Seventh-floor resident making noise late at night, disturbing the peace. That day, I worked overtime until eleven o'clock and came home to take a shower. I used the hairdryer for eight minutes. Martha Money said I woke her up. I live on the seventh floor. She lives on the fifth floor. There are two floors between us. The complaints that followed got increasingly ridiculous. Saying I watered flowers on my balcony and the water dripped onto her windowsill. An enclosed balcony—how did the water drip down two floors? Saying my cat's meowing was too loud. My cat is a British Shorthair, with a personality just like mine—a quiet type. Saying I leave early and come back late every day, acting suspiciously. Property management was too embarrassed to show me that last complaint. Little Zhao told me privately and told me not to take it to heart. I really didn't take it to heart. I just didn't understand— Why was Martha Money targeting me? Mrs. Young helped clear my confusion. Mrs. Young lives on the sixth floor, right between me and Martha Money. One day after work, I ran into her in the elevator. She pulled my arm and whispered: "Chloe, did you offend Martha Money?" I shook my head. "I haven't even spoken five sentences to her in total." Mrs. Young sighed. "Then there's no reason. That's just how she is. She bullies whoever she can catch." Mrs. Young said that before retiring, Martha Money worked at a service window for a local neighborhood committee. She did it for over twenty years and developed a habit— She had to manage everything and control everyone. After she retired and had no one to manage, she treated the whole building as her territory. "Last year, little Liu on the fourth floor was forced out by her just three months after moving in." Mrs. Young lowered her voice. "They just put a stroller in the hallway. She reported them every day and made passive-aggressive comments in the homeowners' group chat, saying things like, 'Some people have low class. If they can't afford to live in a nice community, they shouldn't force their way in.'" "Liu's wife had just given birth and cried from anger. In the end, they rented out the apartment and moved away." I didn't say anything. Mrs. Young patted the back of my hand. "Don't take it too seriously. She's just like that. Everyone just humors her." Humors her. I've heard these three words no less than ten times. Little Zhao said: Humor her. She'll stop when she's had enough. Manager Liu from property management said: Ms. Money is just overly enthusiastic. Don't take it to heart. Even my mom said on the phone: A close neighbor is better than a distant relative. Just endure it. I looked at the seven complaint forms in my drawer and arranged them by date. Endure it. Okay. 02 The eighth complaint came sooner than I expected. Saturday morning at nine o'clock, I was cooking noodles in the kitchen. The doorbell rang. This time it wasn't Little Zhao; it was Manager Liu in person. Martha Money stood behind him. Martha Money is in her early fifties, with permed, reddish-brown curly hair. She was wearing a purple embroidered jacket and a gold necklace. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her chin slightly raised. That posture was all too familiar. The standard stance of a complaint window clerk. "Comrade Chloe Davis," Manager Liu cleared his throat, "Ms. Money reported that your cat defecated in the hallway, affecting public sanitation." "My cat never leaves the apartment." "Then where did that lump in the hallway come from?" Martha Money pulled up a photo on her phone. I took a look. It was a grayish-black lump in the stairwell corner between the sixth and seventh floors. "Is this cat poop?" I asked. "If it's not cat poop, what is it?" Martha Money's voice rose. "Mud." I pointed at the photo and zoomed in. "Look, there are crushed leaves in here." "Last week, when the roof water pipe was repaired, a worker tracked mud down." "Little Zhao even sent a notice in the homeowners' group chat that day." Martha Money's face stiffened for a second. But only for a second. "That still doesn't prove your cat hasn't pooped in the hallway!" She turned to Manager Liu. "Did you investigate? Did you test it?" Manager Liu stood in the middle, looking back and forth. Finally, he coughed. "Ms. Davis, how about you send the cat to a pet store for boarding? It would save us from having constant disputes." I heard him right. She falsely accused me, and the conclusion was that I had to send my cat away. "No." Martha Money glared: "What kind of attitude is that?" "My attitude is very good. The cat stays. If there's nothing else, I'm going to continue cooking my noodles." I closed the door. The noodles were already mushy. I thought she would calm down for a few days. She didn't. Coming home from work on Monday, Mrs. Young was waiting for me at the building entrance. She didn't look well. "Chloe, you should check the homeowners' group chat." I opened my phone. The group chat had exploded. Martha Money had sent a long message, over three hundred words, every word a vicious attack: "Neighbors, it's not that I'm being nosy. Ever since that young woman on the seventh floor moved in, our building hasn't had a day of peace. She keeps a cat without closing her windows, and its meowing disturbs everyone. She piles junk in the hallway, and her shoe rack blocks the way. She blows her hair in the middle of the night, making the whole building vibrate. As a senior resident, what's wrong with me making a suggestion? She slammed the door right in my face. I'm a woman in my fifties being bullied by a young person. Is no one going to do anything about this?" Over three hundred words, and not a single one was true. But people in the group were already replying. "Don't be angry, Ms. Money. Young people don't know any better." "Yeah, Ms. Money worries so much about our building." "I've seen that girl on the seventh floor. She's cold as ice, not easy to get along with." I scrolled to the last message. It was from old Mr. Zhou on the third floor. "Ms. Money is right. In an old community like ours, we have to rely on enthusiastic neighbors to manage things, otherwise it'll be chaos." I placed my phone on my lap. There were forty-seven people in the group. Eleven had replied, uniformly taking her side. Thirty-five remained silent. Not a single person spoke up for me. Not one. Mrs. Young sighed beside me. "I wanted to say something to help you, but..." "It's fine." I cut her off. "Mrs. Young, it's really fine." She looked at me hesitantly, but eventually walked away. I stood at the building entrance and read the group messages one more time. Then I exited the homeowners' group chat. That night, I opened my laptop and pulled up the backend of the roof solar energy system. All operating data was normal. Sixty-two monocrystalline silicon panels, with a total installed capacity of 18.6 kilowatts. The energy storage battery pack had a capacity of 50 kilowatt-hours. It was connected to the entire building's public lighting and hot water circulation system. Every household saved three to five hundred dollars a month on electricity. This was the plan I personally designed two years ago. Material costs, installation fees, grid connection fees—it cost forty-three thousand dollars in total. The company subsidized twenty thousand, and I paid the remaining twenty-three thousand myself. Because this was an extension project for my graduation thesis. Demonstration Project of Distributed Photovoltaic Retrofit in Old Residential Communities. I needed real operational data to complete my follow-up paper. When I initially went to talk to property management, Manager Liu readily agreed the moment he heard they didn't have to pay anything. My only condition was— Reserve an installation spot on the roof for my data collection terminal. The agreement was signed, the system was installed, and the entire building's public electricity bill dropped by sixty percent. But from beginning to end, property management never mentioned to the residents who installed this system. The owners only knew that "the community upgraded to solar energy." They didn't know I provided the money, drew the blueprints, and supervised the construction. I closed my laptop. I hadn't planned on telling anyone about this. Research is research, neighbors are neighbors. I'm not the kind of person who exchanges favors for gratitude. But tonight, looking at those comments in the group chat, I suddenly felt— I might have been too polite to this building. 03 Martha Money had tasted sweetness. The vocal support from the homeowners' group made her even more self-righteous. Three days after I left the group, she did something. Something that completely crossed my bottom line. That day after work, I went home as usual. When I got to the seventh floor, I found a piece of paper taped to my door. A sheet of A4 paper, handwritten with a thick black marker. It had a few large words: "PLEASE BE CIVILIZED WHEN KEEPING PETS!!!" Three exclamation marks, each one pressed so hard it indented the paper. The paper was taped right in the middle of my security door with clear tape. When I peeled it off, it took a piece of paint with it. I crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it in the trash can. As I walked in, I smelled a pungent odor. I looked down. A layer of white powder was sprinkled on the doormat. I crouched down and sniffed it. Mothballs. Crushed mothball powder. Cats are allergic to camphor. Inhaling too much can cause poisoning. I rushed into the apartment. Pudding was curled up on the sofa, sleeping. He is a three-year-old British Shorthair with grayish-blue fur, a round face, and round eyes, as fat as a furball. I picked him up and checked him all over. No abnormalities. The camphor powder on the doormat was blocked outside when I closed the door; it hadn't drifted inside. I went back out, rolled up the doormat, and threw it in the trash. Then I crouched in the hallway, using a wet rag to wipe the floor inch by inch. I wiped for twenty minutes. My knees ached from kneeling. Halfway through wiping, the elevator doors opened. Martha Money came out to take out the trash. She saw me crouching on the floor wiping, a faint smile on the corners of her mouth. "Oh, if it isn't little Chloe from the seventh floor." "Wiping the hallway? That's the way. If you keep a cat, you have to be diligent." She walked past me carrying the trash bag, her slippers stepping over the floor I had just wiped clean. Leaving two dusty footprints. I didn't look up. I didn't look at her. And I didn't speak. I just wrung out the rag again and wiped away those two footprints. Martha Money came back after throwing away the trash and passed by me again. This time she stopped for two seconds, looking down at me. "Young people should do more work. It's good for you." "It's better than serving a cat like it's your ancestor all day long." She finished speaking, walked into the elevator, and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The elevator doors closed. The hallway went quiet. I gripped the rag tightly, my nails digging into my palms. That night, I gave Pudding a physical exam. All his vitals were normal. But I still wasn't relieved. I spent an hour online looking up the symptoms of camphor poisoning. Vomiting, convulsions, liver damage. In severe cases, death. She was genuinely trying to harm my cat. It wasn't a report; it wasn't a complaint. It was deliberate harm. I sat on the sofa holding Pudding. He nuzzled his head into the crook of my arm like usual. Purring loudly. I've had him for three years. From when he was a month old and smaller than my palm, until now. I have no friends and no relatives in this city. My parents are back in our hometown; I see them once a year. My relationships with colleagues are superficial; after work, we all go our separate ways. Every day when I return to this 650-square-foot apartment, only Pudding is at the door waiting for me. He doesn't mind that I don't talk much, doesn't mind that I'm boring. If I work overtime until midnight, he just lies quietly in the entryway. Only lifting his head when he hears the key turning, slowly walking over to rub against my ankles. He is my family. Martha Money doesn't know this. And she doesn't care. In her eyes, I am just a young tenant who is easy to bully. I don't argue, I don't cause trouble, I just take it. She was wrong. I don't just take it. I just don't want to waste time on people who aren't worth it. But she touched Pudding. That changes things. The next day, I did three things. First: I installed a twenty-dollar security camera at my door. The recording angle covered the entire hallway. Second: I put weather stripping around my doorframe to prevent powder from drifting in. Third: I opened my phone and ordered a new smart lock online. Fingerprint and passcode dual lock. The installation technician asked what to do with the old lock. I said throw it away. Pudding lay on the shoe cabinet, watching me change the lock. His round eyes unblinking. "Don't be afraid." I patted his head. "I'll protect you." 04 On the third day after the camera was installed, it caught Martha Money. At 6:12 AM. She walked up from the fifth floor wearing pajamas, carrying a plastic bag. She squatted at my door, took something out of the bag, and sprinkled it on my doormat. The whole process took forty-seven seconds. Captured clearly. I took screenshots and saved the original video. I didn't make a fuss. That same afternoon, the ninth complaint form arrived. This time, the content made me laugh. "Seventh-floor resident privately installed a camera in the public corridor, invading neighbors' privacy." When Little Zhao handed me the form, he looked very troubled. "Ms. Davis, Ms. Money says she's going to go to the media." "Let her." "Huh?" "I installed the camera because someone was placing hazardous substances at my door." I showed Little Zhao the video on my phone. Just one glance, for two seconds. Little Zhao's face turned pale. "This... this is too much..." "I'm not pursuing this matter for now." I took my phone back. "But the camera stays." "If she feels uncomfortable being filmed, she doesn't have to come to the seventh floor." Little Zhao's legs were shaking when he left. A twenty-three-year-old guy, on the job for less than a year, caught in the middle and taking heat from both sides. I felt a bit sorry for him, but I couldn't help him. I thought having video evidence would make Martha Money back off. She didn't. She just changed her approach. On Wednesday night, in the homeowners' group chat—yes, even though I had left the group, Mrs. Young would forward messages to me—Martha Money posted an even longer message: "Just a heads up to all neighbors, the woman on the seventh floor installed a camera in the hallway! It's pointed at the elevator and stairwell! Whatever you're wearing when you go out is being recorded! Those of you with elderly people or children at home, be careful. Who knows what she's going to do with those recordings. Young people these days are very scheming." The chat blew up. "What? Installed a camera? That's too much!" "Who gave her permission? Isn't property management going to do something?" "Isn't this an invasion of privacy? We can call the police now." "I walk past the seventh floor every day, was I recorded?" Seventeen replies, and not a single person asked why she installed it. Not a single person thought— Why would a young woman living alone spend twenty dollars to install a camera at her door? Martha Money added another message in the group: "I heard that last time property management went to talk to her, her attitude was terrible and she slammed the door right in their faces. Our community doesn't have room for people like this!" Mrs. Young forwarded the screenshot to me and added: "Chloe, maybe you should explain in the group?" Explain what? Explain that she sprinkled mothball powder at my door to poison my cat? What if she denies it? Post the video? And then what? She'll cry, say she's old and confused, and ask everyone to judge whether it's right for a young person to be so hard on a woman in her fifties. I've seen this script too many times. In the end, she would be the "overly enthusiastic elderly person." And I would be the "petty young person." No explaining. No arguing back. No posting the video. It's not time yet. "Mrs. Young, thank you. I'm fine." I replied with that single sentence, then placed my phone face down on the table. Pudding jumped onto the table and rubbed his head against my hand. I stroked his back. One stroke, two strokes. I was calculating a debt in my head. 05 Martha Money's tenth report finally moved from online to offline. The neighborhood committee organized a "Civilized Building" evaluation symposium. They called it a symposium, but it was really just representatives from each building sitting together to chat. Martha Money appointed herself the "representative" of our building. No one fought her for it. I didn't plan to go. Manager Liu called and asked me to attend. "Ms. Davis, Ms. Money has raised some concerns about you. It would be better if you came to respond in person." "If you don't come, it'll just be her side of the story." I went. In the community activity room, there were about twenty plastic chairs arranged around a long table. Director Ma sat at the head, with Manager Liu next to him. When I arrived, Martha Money was already seated, and she brought two people with her—old Mr. Zhou from the third floor and Ms. Zhao from the fourth floor. Her cheering squad. I found a seat in the corner. Director Ma gave a brief opening remark, then asked the building representatives to speak. Martha Money was the first to raise her hand. She cleared her throat and stood up. "Director Ma, I'm reflecting an issue on behalf of all the residents of Building 7." She pulled a notebook out of her bag, its pages densely covered in writing. "The tenant on the seventh floor—" She glanced at me. "—has a lot of problems." Then she began reading. Keeping a cat that disturbs the peace. Cluttering the hallway. Late-night noise. Installing a camera that invades privacy. Unauthorized drying on the balcony. Not participating in community activities. Not paying the public maintenance fund. That last one made me pause. I pay it every month. Auto-deduction. Never missed a payment. But I didn't interrupt her. Martha Money finished reading, closed her notebook, and delivered her concluding remarks: "Director Ma, I'm not targeting anyone, but a resident like this seriously affects our building's civilized environment. I suggest property management communicate with the landlord and ask her to move out." Ask me to move out. The room was quiet for a few seconds. Old Mr. Zhou chimed in: "Ms. Money is right. Our building has always been a civilized building. We can't let one bad apple ruin the whole bunch." Ms. Zhao nodded: "Exactly, exactly." Director Ma looked at me. "Chloe, do you have anything to say?" Over twenty pairs of eyes looked at me. Some curious, some sympathetic, some just watching the show. Not a single pair was on my side. I stood up. "First, I am not a tenant. I am the owner. My name is on the property deed." "Second, my maintenance fund is set to auto-deduct every month. Here are the deduction records." I held up my phone. Martha Money's expression changed. "Third, regarding the camera." I paused for a second. The whole room was waiting. "I installed the camera because someone was placing hazardous substances at my door, endangering my pet's safety." "I have video evidence." Martha Money stood up abruptly. "Nonsense! What evidence do you have!" Her voice was shrill and piercing. I looked at her. "I said someone. I didn't say who." "Ms. Money, why are you getting so worked up?" The room went quiet again. Martha Money froze. She realized she had overreacted, her face turning a dark, liver-red color. Old Mr. Zhou quickly tried to smooth things over: "Alright, alright, young people have sharp tongues. Ms. Money, don't lower yourself to her level." Director Ma played the peacemaker, saying "Neighbors should be understanding of each other." The symposium ended without any resolution. But as I walked out of the activity room, I heard what Martha Money said to Ms. Zhao behind my back. She thought I was far away. I wasn't. I had walked two steps and stopped, standing around the corner. "Don't worry, I've already spoken to Manager Liu." Martha Money's voice was low and confident. "When parking spaces are reallocated next month, they're going to reassign her B12 spot to my son." "She's just a young girl who rides an electric scooter. Why does she need a parking spot?" Ms. Zhao laughed: "Ms. Money, you're amazing." "Of course." Martha Money scoffed. "And she threatened me with a video? I'd like to see what's stronger, her camera or my connections." I stood around the corner, my back pressed against the wall. My fingers slowly curled into fists, then relaxed. Okay. Very well.
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