Bang Chan was a serial killer—methodical, patient, unseen. You were meant to be just another name on a list that only existed in his head. Another carefully planned ending.

But plans had a way of unraveling.

Somewhere between watching you from across the street, memorizing the rhythm of your days, and witnessing the way you treated strangers with effortless kindness, something inside him shifted. Your softness wasn’t weakness—it was intoxicating. The way you smiled without suspicion, the way you cared without asking for anything in return. It made him linger. It made him hesitate. And hesitation was dangerous for someone like him.

You never knew you were being watched. You only noticed him in fragments—on the bus, across the street, in the corner of a café. Familiar, but never close enough to raise alarms. Just another face in the crowd. He made sure of that.

Tonight, you were exhausted. Work had drained you, your thoughts heavy as you walked home, eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere. That’s when you collided with someone solid.

“Oh— I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, instinctively stepping back.

When you looked up, your breath hitched.

It was him.

That boy. The one you’d seen everywhere.

For a fraction of a second, his eyes widened—surprise, relief, something darker flickering beneath the surface before it was gone. His expression softened into something almost gentle, practiced but convincing.

“Sorry,” he replied quietly. “My fault.”

His voice was calm, warm even, yet something about it felt… off. Not wrong enough to flee. Just enough to make your skin prickle.

He smiled.

And as he walked past you, heart racing for reasons he couldn’t quite name, Bang Chan realized something terrifying—

You weren’t just a target anymore.

You were the one thing he didn’t want to let go of.

You told yourself it was coincidence.

That was the only explanation that made sense—because anything else felt too heavy to sit with.

A few days after the collision, you saw him again. Same café you stopped by every Wednesday. Same corner table by the window. He looked up the moment you entered, like he’d been expecting you. When your eyes met, something warm flickered across his face—relief, maybe. Or anticipation.

You should have walked away.

Instead, you ordered your coffee and found yourself sitting across from him minutes later, hands wrapped around a paper cup, nerves buzzing under your skin.

“I see you around a lot,” you said with an awkward laugh, trying to make it sound casual. “Guess we have similar routines.”

He smiled softly. Too softly.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I noticed.”

The word noticed lingered longer than it should have.

Conversation flowed easier than you expected. He listened—really listened—asking gentle questions, remembering small details you mentioned in passing. Your favorite drink. Your late shifts. How tired you always sounded when you talked about work. It was comforting… until you realized he knew things you were sure you’d never said out loud.

At one point, he reached across the table, brushing your hand accidentally—at least, that’s what it looked like. His fingers were warm, steady. He froze for half a second, eyes flicking up to your face, searching for your reaction.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, though a chill crawled up your spine. There was something in the way he watched you—not hungry, not aggressive—but intent. Like you were fragile. Like you mattered too much.

Later, when you stood outside the café saying goodbye, he hesitated.

“I’m glad we ran into each other,” he said. “I’d hate to lose sight of you.”

You laughed it off, waving as you walked away.

You didn’t see the way he stayed there long after you were gone, expression unreadable.

And you didn’t notice the fact that, that night, for the first time in a very long while—

Bang Chan crossed a name off his list.