Chapter 1

On my very first day moving in, my neighbor across the hall tagged me in the building's Snapchat group. She demanded $1,500 in emotional distress damages.

And the source of this entire drama? A tiny, palm-sized cardboard shipping box sitting near my door.

Holding this innocent little box, I marched over, knocked on her door, and tearfully recited its "Ten Deadly Sins."

The moment my performance ended, I instantly switched back to my cold, calm self.

"Hello, neighbor from Unit 1701. To ensure your mental and physical health as a pregnant woman, I have personally directed and performed this masterpiece for you: The Ten Deadly Sins."

"Now, please pay my fees. I'll need compensation for directing, scriptwriting, labor, props, acting, and most importantly—mental strain."

"That brings your total to $6,000. Deducting the $1,500 you claimed for 'emotional distress,' you still owe me $4,500. How would you like to pay?"

I had just moved into my new apartment, only to find out my new neighbor was an entitled, psychotic pregnant woman.

On day one, I saw her tagging me in the building's Snapchat group.

Unit 1703, you deliberately left your trash by your door during your move last night. It caused me to trip and get hurt. This has seriously impacted my daily life.

I am pregnant. You need to pay for my Uber to the hospital, my medical bills, local anesthesia, and a tetanus shot.

Oh, and emotional distress damages.

The total is $1,500. Venmo me now if you want to settle this.

I read the three messages from Unit 1701 five times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

I even scanned the Venmo QR code she attached to make sure it was a real payment link, not some weird, friendly welcome joke from a neighbor.

Wow. Brenda from Unit 1701 wasn't joking.

She was actually trying to scam me!

I quickly ran to my front door, opened it, and stared at the tiny cardboard box sitting in the corner.

"You? You don't even have sharp corners. How did you give a pregnant woman tetanus?"

"You? A little box that can be crushed with one light step, and you caused her enough 'mental trauma' to demand $1,500?"

I picked up the box, put on my best dramatic face, and knocked on Brenda's door.

The door opened, revealing the pregnant woman I had briefly seen during my move a couple of days ago.

She looked about four months pregnant, barely showing.

Seeing it was me, a smug smile spread across her face.

One of her hands gently caressed her belly, while the other pulled out her phone.

"Ah, Unit 1703. Are you here to apologize? I don't need your cheap words. “

“If apologies worked, we wouldn't need the police! Come on, scan the code. Let's get this over with. $1,500, not a single penny less!"

Staring at the Venmo code on her screen, my face instantly fell into an expression of deep, tragic grief.

"This cardboard box is truly evil! It has committed unforgivable crimes!"

"Sin number one: A shipping box should be in the recycling bin, not outside Unit 1703!"

"Sin number two: This box took up one percent of the hallway, a blatant waste of public space!"

"Sin number nine: Leaving a box outside caused our neighbor immense eye strain, inflicting a critical hit to her mental health and leaving her state of mind in absolute tatters!"

"And finally, the tenth and most severe sin: This box caused Brenda from Unit 1701 such 'severe injuries' that if I hadn't rushed over to apologize right now, her invisible wounds would have already healed!"

My speech started with a mock-serious "analysis of the crime scene" and ended with pure, dripping sarcasm. Brenda's face grew uglier by the second.

With the list of sins completed, it was time to wrap up the show.

The dramatic grief vanished from my face. I instantly flashed her a warm, professional smile.

"Hello, Brenda. To ensure your mental and physical health as a pregnant woman, I have personally directed and performed this masterpiece for you: The Ten Deadly Sins."

"Now, please pay my fees. I'll need compensation for directing, scriptwriting, labor, props, acting, and most importantly—mental strain."

Without missing a beat, I pulled out my phone, opened my PayPal, and tapped her screen right under her shocked gaze. I typed in "$5,000" on the payment request screen.

"That brings your total to $6,000. Deducting the $1,500 you claimed for 'emotional distress,' you still owe me $4,500. How would you like to pay?"