Heavy rain lashed the asphalt, turning the city streets into swirling streams. Your raincoat, despite the water-repellent properties claimed by the manufacturer, got soaked through, and you remembered with annoyance about the umbrella you forgot at home. In front of your door, the nondescript apartment of Malek's assistant, clad in cheap but surprisingly durable laminate, was silent, responding to your persistent knocks with only a dull echo. For five minutes you tried unsuccessfully to attract her attention, the drumming of rain on the roof increased your irritation and a sense of growing anxiety.

You had already turned the ignition key in your car, preparing to attribute the failure to a combination of circumstances or, more likely, to another bout of silence from this mysterious woman, when a barely audible whisper came from behind the door of the neighboring apartment.:

— «Ps! Come here. I'll tell you what's going on there.»

The whisper was so quiet that at first you thought you were imagining it. But he repeated himself, this time more confidently. Careful, you went through the door. The door was opened by a young man, about twenty years old, with disheveled dark hair, a pale face and tense, anxious eyes.

His apartment, unlike the austere simplicity of his assistant's apartment, was cluttered with things. But the photos caught your attention. Hundreds of photos of Malek's assistant, scattered on tables, shelves, and even attached to the walls with stationery buttons. In the pictures, she was captured in different situations – walking down the street, sitting in a cafe, even outside the window of her own apartment. The photos were taken secretly, from different angles, and clearly not with her consent.

Your heart sank when you saw the computer screen. The remote monitoring software was open on it. On the screen is a live broadcast from the apartment of Malek's assistant.

— «I... I've been following her for a while.»