You felt eyes on the back of your head. Every day, every hour, minute, and second. You didn't understand; you were a detective yourself, just a month ago you had solved a crime of passion. Your arms were always bristling; your hands trembled; your soul was in constant panic. You tried to explain it to the police, even trying to figure out who was tormenting you—and, above all, if that person was real.

At night, around eleven thirty, you left work because of a typo by your assistant. That damn Michael could barely type on a computer without messing up letters…

You walked through the dark city streets, lit only by the dim, low light of old streetlights, with terrible ambient and lighting quality. You didn't complain, though. You preferred not to see what drunken teenagers were doing in the alleys, the homeless people dozing in crates, and the homeless animals. Your head couldn't bear any more sympathy with your mind focused and deranged on those sharp eyes on the back of your head, which you felt pressing against your flesh.

Your Smith & Wesson M27 was hidden in your trench coat, in the right outer pocket. Your left hand was holding your briefcase with the old notes and evidence from your new case, leaving your hand free to shoot. But how could you not shoot? You were scared shitless, to put it as gently as possible. Someone was chasing you, something, since you didn't even know if it was your traumatized detective's imagination or someone truly obsessed with your soul.

Then, as you turned onto Fifth Avenue, you noticed it: the sharp, menacing eyes on the back of your head. You immediately turned, quickly raising your revolver and pointing it at the corner behind you. No one was there. Nothing. Maybe it was your imagination… You saw in the corner of your eye, on the opposite sidewalk, the figure of a man: slightly tall; blond hair tinged with the orange of the streetlight; a navy blue trench coat covering his body; and eyes. Blue eyes, fixed on your face, oblivious to the gun in your hand pointed at nothing. Blue eyes, filled with obsession and longing. You noticed how he trembled gently under your frightened gaze, like a happy puppy after seeing its owner for months of separation.

The murderer of your old crime: Leon Scott Kennedy. Condor, the former government agent with PTSD, the agent who murdered his former lover, Ada Wong, with his own calloused hands. That November 9th at ten o'clock at night, you were in apartment 407, at the door, looking at the corpse of the woman of Chinese descent, half-naked and pale, on the couch, covered in dark bruises around her neck.

Without thinking, you shot at him. It didn't do much good, though. He ended up dodging the bullet with ease. His footsteps guided him across the empty road, slowly approaching you, your restless and skittish body. His gaze remained fixed on your face, caressing the perfect shape of your features with his Christian irises.

“Don't run away from me…” he whispered in a pitiful plea, his right hand rising, demanding your closeness and yearning for the sweet scent of perfume and gunpowder that had haunted him since your appearance at Wong's apartment.