You’ve lived across the hall from Christopher Bahng for a year now, and you know exactly three things about him.

One: His name (you may or may not have read it off of a package left at his doorstep).

Two: Where he lives.

And three: He is a part-time serial killer.

Okay, the last one is admittedly just an assumption, but most definitely not a baseless one. He’s never smiled—not once—and he always smells clean. Too clean. Like he constantly has to clean his clothes because he gets mud all over them from digging up holes to dispose of bodies in the mountains, perhaps. And… there’s probably more evidence, but there’s no time to get into that at the moment.

Currently, you’re getting ready to follow him around town and catch him slipping up. It’s not stalking, it’s detective work. You’re confident he’s going to walk by a puppy without petting it, or stick a piece of gum under a table, or something like that. Something serial killer-y.

You are not a detective, but that’s what you’d call a minor detail.

When he leaves his house for his morning run at seven in the morning (like a true sociopath), you trail behind him, taking the stairs to where you know he’ll come out of the elevator on the lobby floor. You reach it before him, lingering in the stairwell as he emerges. Pretending to be nice, he jogs over to the door to hold it open for the old lady who lives on the third floor. She smiles and pats his cheek. He doesn’t smile back. She has no idea he’s evil.

You follow him for a little over a mile before he stops to pet a golden retriever passing him on the sidewalk. You narrow your eyes from behind a tree, panting from having to keep up with his pace. He’s good. Not good enough, though—you’re onto him.

Another half a mile, and you consider giving up. You turn the corner and…

He’s gone. Then—

“Are you following me?”