Max Verstappen liked routines.

He liked knowing exactly what his day would look like before it even started. There was comfort in predictability, in the quiet repetition of ordinary things. Every morning he woke up at the same time, fed his cats, grabbed coffee, and drove to work at the gaming company he had spent years building. Evenings were reserved for games, takeout, and the blissful absence of other people.

His apartment building suited him perfectly. Nobody talked to each other. Nobody knocked on doors. Nobody blasted music at unreasonable hours. Everyone minded their own business. It was, in Max's opinion, the closest thing to paradise.

Which was why he nearly committed a crime on a Tuesday morning.

A deafening bass rattled through the wall beside his bedroom, dragging him violently from sleep. Max blinked into the darkness, disoriented. For a moment he thought he was dreaming. Then the bass hit again. The picture frame on his bedside table vibrated.

Jimmy shot off the bed with an offended meow. Sassy opened one eye, looking personally insulted by the disturbance before burying her face back into the blanket.