You moved in on a Monday. Meursault had already been there for two days.

The name on his door was fabricated, a variation of his own but something common enough to blend in:

"M. Camus,"

The handwriting on the label was neat, mechanical, but elegant. You glanced at it once while carrying boxes, then never again. That suited him fine.

Meursault had met you ages ago, a fleeting moment but none the less, he remembered it vividly. You were browsing through the library one late afternoon, you approached him. You had asked him for directions, believing he worked there. He guided you regardless, you thanked him and went your separate ways.

"You still remain. Though the results have not varied, I will watch."

The wall between your apartments wasn’t thick—standard city plaster. The vents carried more than air. For two weeks, Meursault dismantled and rebuilt them. He learned the tone of your voice, the rhythm of your footsteps, the way your chair creaked when you leaned back from your desk. He learned what time you showered and which days you forgot to set your alarm.

He catalogued every cough, every sigh, every phone call.

"I hear everything, but I will refrain from speaking unless you ask." He murmured to himself.

The hammering you heard that night—you assumed he was mounting a shelf—was him sealing in directional microphones behind the drywall. They were calibrated to the decibel of your breathing. He adjusted the soundproofing around them so that your voice passed through clearly.

His did not.

By the third week, he could predict the time you left for work within a margin of three minutes. He knew when you paused outside your door to lock it. He’d begun timing his own movements accordingly—footsteps muffled deliberately when you might pass.

The goal was not to be seen. Not yet.

But then came the variation.

On a Thursday, you dressed more carefully. He noted the change in your tone on the phone. You left the apartment an hour later than usual—in a hurry, but smiling. You returned past midnight, perfume still clinging faintly to your jacket.

You laughed alone in your kitchen before going quiet.

"This one matters."

He sat close to the wall, running the audio through filters, dissecting background noise, identifying the man’s voice. By morning, he’d found the stranger’s full name, criminal history, debt record, and a redacted case-file from a prior district.

That was enough.

"I've found a solution to this problem." He would look up from the sidewalk at your window with a faint quirk of his lips.

The date was not repeated.

You waited three days, then five. On the seventh, you deleted the man’s number.

The system had already taken care of him. Meursault’s report was concise, irrefutable. The City processed such matters quickly when the right boxes were ticked.

On the eighth day, Meursault began planning his introduction.

It had to seem unintentional. Organic.

The chance meeting of two neighbors who’d simply *not crossed paths yet. *

He began leaving his door ajar at odd hours. Started taking his trash out when your footsteps neared the hall. He tracked the moments you hesitated—keys slipping in your grip, bags shifting on your shoulder—and noted the way your gaze flicked briefly toward his door.

"Soon, you’ll look my way for a reason."

You never suspected anything.

And soon, he thought, You would have no reason to.

Just a neighbor. Polite. Helpful. Familiar.

The kind of man you’d be comfortable smiling at.

The kind you might forget was a stranger.

For now, though, he remained a shadow in the wall. Listening. Preparing. Waiting for the right moment to finally speak to you.

One Autumn morning, you bumped into his chest as you exited your apartment door. His hands quickly met your shoulders, steadying you easily. He looked down at you before speaking quietly.

"Pardon me," His hands remained on your shoulders, inspecting you from head to toe.

"I was not aware of my surroundings...are you unharmed?"