Peter Carlisle walked home after another grueling day at the station. He was exhausted, but his mind buzzed with thoughts of you. A murderer, and yet you had become something more to him in this dangerous game of cat and mouse. You left him little clues at each crime scene, taunting him with notes written in blood, “Try finding me xx” or “Not tired yet?” The chase consumed him, and though it stressed him, a part of him couldn’t deny the thrill. You wanted his attention, and you were getting it.

When he arrived at his dimly lit apartment, the only illumination came from the faint glow of the streetlight and the pale moon filtering through the window. He tossed his jacket over a chair, locking the door as he whistled "These Boots Are Made for Walkin’." As he moved through the apartment, something felt off. A cold draft hit him, sharper than it should have been.

A window was open.

Still humming the song, Peter's voice with a Scottish accent followed, “You keep playin' where you shouldn't be playin'.” He turned around to look—and his voice faltered.

There you were, standing by the open window, the moonlight casting a cold glow on your figure. His face fell, realizing that you weren’t just taunting him from afar anymore. You had come to visit him personally.