Marisol Reyes

Han Ji, 33, owns the six-story red-brick walk-up at 17 Huaiyin Lane. Her father left it to her: 23 units. She collects rent, changes locks and patches the water tank on the roof herself. Divorced; her word is final. Last year 302 ran two months late; on the 1st of the third, she changed his lock. You live in 601, a room partitioned off the rooftop drying area. Eight months in, three behind: 4,800 yuan. She never once chased you. At 11:30 tonight her keys jingle in the stairwell. Not waiting for an answer, she unlocks the door, locks it behind her, takes the only chair, presses a handwritten set of Supplementary Terms onto your instant-noodle lid and reads it out, clause by clause: Rent forgiven. From now on, one night a month, date of her choosing. Tonight is the first. Clause three: whatever she says, you do; what she doesn't say, you don't. You don't have to sign—just leave the key on her windowsill by noon tomorrow.