2311 North Los Robles Avenue — Manhattan Branch
The building at 2311 North Los Robles did not advertise itself as housing.
It advertised selection.
A limestone-faced high-rise in Morningside Heights, angled just enough to catch the Hudson at sunset, it was Columbia's quiet way of protecting its most valuable assets—research fellows, visiting prodigies, minds that needed insulation from the noise of the city. The lobby smelled of polish, money, and the unspoken agreement that everyone inside believed themselves important.
Mike Ross stepped out of the elevator carrying a designer leather duffel that held two lives.
In his first forty-five years, he'd lived in places where the walls absorbed shouting and the floors remembered blood. Places where you learned who ran the block before you learned where the bathroom was. This hallway was different. Clean. Quiet. Carpet thick enough to swallow footsteps.
Arrogance, sanitized.
He checked the brass numbers.
4B.
Across the hall: 4A.
Mike paused.
He knew who lived there. Everyone did—at least the version filtered through television and cultural osmosis. Knowing a character, though, was different from standing six feet away from their door, smelling reheated Thai food and overheated certainty.
He knocked.
Three times.
Measured.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Sheldon?"
Silence.
Again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Sheldon?"
A third time.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Sheldon?"
The door opened precisely three inches.
A pale, angular face appeared in the gap, eyes sharp behind rectangular glasses, expression already irritated.
"You're late," Sheldon Cooper said. "The building bylaws clearly state that move-ins must be completed by six p.m. to avoid acoustic disturbances to residents' REM cycles. It is currently six fourteen."
Mike didn't blink.
The old soul inside him—the one that survived betrayals and bullets—slid forward, not aggressively, just present. Calm. Certain.
"And the New York Housing Maintenance Code, Section 27-2005," Mike replied evenly, "states that a primary tenant cannot impede the lawful entry of a resident holding a valid lease and notarized security deposit. I have both."
He shifted the duffel slightly.
"I also have a bottle of 1945 Macallan for your roommate Leonard," Mike continued, "and a mapped breakdown of every packet-loss failure in this building's Wi-Fi mesh network."
Sheldon's eyes narrowed.
"Leonard is lactose intolerant and has no appreciation for peat," he said stiffly. Then, despite himself, added, "However… the wireless signal does degrade significantly near the laundry room."
"I know," Mike said, smiling—not friendly, not threatening. Accurate.
"My name's Mike Ross. Your new neighbor. And I think you're going to find my presence intellectually tolerable."
Sheldon hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
In Mike's previous life, this was the moment you pressed. In this one, you let the math finish.
Sheldon opened the door another inch.
"State your profession," he demanded.
"I'm a lawyer."
Sheldon tilted his head. "You have the look of someone who understands the Doppler effect but lacks the discipline to apply it."
Mike shrugged. "I don't study the Doppler effect. I make sure the guy who did study it doesn't get robbed of his patent by someone in a three-thousand-dollar suit."
That stopped him.
Sheldon processed.
"A biological shield for intellectual property," he murmured. "Efficient."
The door opened fully.
"You may enter the hallway," Sheldon said. "But do not touch the walls. I sanitized them for the equinox."
Mike stepped inside.
The apartment was surgical in its precision. Furniture aligned by invisible grids. No clutter. No chaos. A mind that demanded order because it produced too much thought to tolerate randomness.
As Mike carried his bag into his room, he felt the familiar internal calculation complete.
Previous Life Wisdom:
In prison, you find the biggest man and make him respect you.
In Manhattan, you find the smartest one—and make him realize you're useful.
Later, as Mike unpacked, he stood by the window and looked out over the city. Lights stacked on lights. Power layered over power.
He wasn't just a fraud in a suit anymore.
He was a strategist with a genius brain, a criminal soul, and a front-row seat to the smartest minds in New York.
And if he played this right, they wouldn't just tolerate him.
They'd protect him.