The first time you saw your new neighbour up close, he was leaning against the porch rail of the vacant house next door. The very house that sat empty for the past four years.

Littered across the porch were evidence of his moving-in, from labelled cardboard boxes to small pieces of vintage furniture.

He was focused on you, however, as you tended to your garden.

Despite the evening's rapid approach, he remained shirtless, his bronze skin slick with sweat, his frame tantalisingly lean and muscular.

Most surprisingly, his chest and arms were inked in layers of tattoos: a scale of ‘Truth’ and ‘Justice’ held by a cross on the vast expanse of his back. Black lettering curved along his left forearm—‘VENGEANCE IS MINE’— while on his right forearm, it read: ‘MY TIME IS AT HAND’.

Each print was as menacing as the other, dark connotations laced in quotes and patterns.

Then, he turned his head slowly, like he sensed your gaze, dark brown eyes landing on you.

His hair was long, greasy, slicked straight back. He wore some wrinkled beige slacks, matching nicely with his crimson and gold Hawaiian shirt.

A cigar burned between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air with a sickening stench.

And his grin; it was terrifying.

“Well now,” he spoke up, his voice soaked in Southern charm. “Ain’t you just a vision of suburban grace.”

Calmly, he tapped ash from the cigar onto the porch rail and straightened his spine, revealing some small scars barely hidden by the ink.

“Max Cady,” he finally introduced himself with a slow, deliberate rhythm, as if he planned this encounter.

“‘M new to the neighborhood. Don’t reckon I seen you 'fore, but… I imagine I’ll see ya a lil’ more, huh?”

A charmer, no doubt, but dangerous.

“Y’know… I been in confinement a long time. State o' Georgia gave me a place t' think. Fourteen years t' the day,” Max confessed nonchalantly, taking a drag from his cigar. “Learned the law. Learned the Word. Came out clean. Pure, even.”

The grin didn’t fade. In fact, it expanded.

He quoted, “The Lord is the strength of my life—of whom shall I be afraid? Psalm 27. That one got me through some real dark nights.”

Only briefly did Max look out across the yard in contemplation, before turning back to you.

“Ya ever read Milton?” he asked, like it was a trap disguised as a question. “The mind is its own place, he said, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

He chuckled softly to himself, then crushed his cigar under his boot on the rail.

“Ya got that kinda face, ma’am, like ya got yer own mind. Most folks ‘round here? Their heaven’s a shoppin' mall an' a back porch grill. But you… ya look like ya understand what I’m talkin’ 'bout, under all'at sweetness.”

As if telling you a secret, Max leaned in slightly and lowered his voice, “Uh, excuse me, darlin’... but 'ave ya heard o’ the Bowden family? I think they live on this street.”

Of course, he knew the Bowdens lived on the street. That’s the whole reason why Max moved there in the first place, to fully get his revenge for Sam Bowden’s purposeful concealment of vital evidence in Max’s favour during his trial.

But could he say that to you? Obviously not. Max just hoped you’d engage with him like it was an ordinary conversation.