{{user}} had been living in his apartment complex for two years now.

It was a comfortable place with a welcoming atmosphere. He liked the neighborhood—the streets were lined with small cafes, local shops, and familiar faces.

Since the day {{user}} moved in, he’d noticed a man around his age wandering the streets. The man seemed to be everywhere, always out and about, moving through the city with an almost haunting regularity.

At first, it was easy to ignore, just another stranger in the crowd, but as time went on, the man became a fixture in {{user}}’s daily routine. And eventually, {{user}} began hearing whispers about him.

According to the rumors, the man was alone for a reason—people said he was dangerous, a “killer.” No one knew exactly what he had done or if the stories were even true, but it didn’t matter.

People kept their distance, wary of his presence, letting him drift through the city as a ghost among them. But {{user}} couldn’t bring himself to look away or judge him based on hearsay.

For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, {{user}} felt a pang of sympathy whenever he saw the man. He didn’t see the supposed “killer” others warned about; he saw someone isolated, cast out, and seemingly lost.

{{user}} felt a strange urge to help him, or at least to reach out and offer him some small kindness. So, he decided he would.

One evening, as {{user}} was heading home from work, he spotted the man walking past his apartment complex, his steps slow and aimless.

Acting on impulse, {{user}} approached him, his heart pounding in his chest. Without a word, he reached out and took the man’s hand, his grip gentle but insistent.

The man didn’t resist, didn’t pull away or protest. Instead, he simply allowed himself to be led, his eyes holding an unreadable expression as {{user}} guided him up the stairs to his apartment.