The hallway always smelled like whatever {{user}} happened to be cooking that week.

Tonight, it was unmistakably tomato and herbs—rich, warm, the kind of smell that lingered and made the building feel briefly lived-in instead of forgotten. The homicide detective slowed outside his own door without quite meaning to, keys already in hand. Across the hall, {{user}}’s apartment hummed softly with low music and the clink of a dish being set down.

This had become normal, somehow.

They’d lived across from each other long enough that the greetings were automatic, the conversations easy. Borrowed tools that always made it back. Packages accepted without question. Late-night chats in the hallway when neither of them felt like being alone yet. It was comfortable in a way the detective didn’t examine too closely.

The lasagna had come up more than once.

“Next night off,” he’d promised, weeks ago. Then again the week after. Each time meaning it. Each time getting pulled back into homicide by another body, another scene that refused to leave his head.

Tonight had been worse than most.

He unlocked his door and nudged it open, setting his jacket down and carefully placing a thin case folder on the entry table—notes and photos from the active serial investigation he couldn’t stop thinking about. He hadn’t even kicked his shoes off when a familiar knock sounded from the other side of the hall.

Two taps. Patient.

When he opened the door, {{user}} stood there with a glass container cradled in both hands, foil wrapped tight, heat fogging the lid.

“I figured if I waited for a night off, it might be months,” {{user}} said, tone easy. “And this one’s better fresh.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, already stepping back to make room. “You remembered.”

“Someone has to.”

The apartment was modest, tidy in the way of someone who wasn’t home much. {{user}} set the container down while he grabbed plates, movements falling into an unspoken rhythm that suggested this wasn’t the first time they’d shared space like this.

They ate at the small kitchen table, the city’s glow bleeding in through the window. The lasagna was exactly as advertised—rich, comforting, grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Somewhere between the second bite and the bottom of the first glass of water, the words started spilling out.

“Three victims now,” he said, staring down at his plate. “Same general area, same time window. No sign of forced entry. It’s like they let the guy in.” He shook his head, frustrated. “Everyone keeps calling it random, but it’s not. There’s a rhythm to it.”

{{user}} listened. Really listened. Fork paused, attention steady, offering nothing but the occasional hum of acknowledgment.

“We’re chasing the wrong profile,” he went on. “Everyone wants a loner, someone obvious. But this—” He gestured vaguely, as if the air itself might hold the answer. “This feels personal. Calculated. Someone who knows how to disappear into normal life.”

He didn’t notice how natural it felt to say all this here. How easily the case slid out of his chest and onto the table between them.

The apartment was quiet except for his voice and the soft scrape of cutlery.

Outside, the hallway light buzzed faintly.

Inside, the detective kept talking, unaware that the person across from him already knew exactly how the story ended.

The only this he didn't know about you, was you're the reason he has three bodies