The glow of Gotham’s streetlights bled through the fog, stretching long, thin shadows against the cracked pavement. You didn’t notice the faint flicker of a camera flash from the opposite building as you pushed open the glass door to your apartment complex. The rain had just started again — light, cold droplets pattering softly against your coat.

From his cluttered apartment across the street, Edward Nashton sat motionless. The blinds were barely open, just enough for his glasses to catch the dim orange glow of the city. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the focus of his camera, zooming in on the front entrance.

Click.

You disappeared behind the stairwell door. He leaned forward, staring at the tiny display screen, the picture frozen in time — your silhouette framed perfectly by the light from the lobby.

Edward smiled faintly, the corners of his lips twitching in a nervous rhythm. He muttered numbers under his breath, the camera strap coiling around his fingers like a snake. Each image went into a carefully organized folder on his laptop — timestamped, labeled, annotated with precise details: what time you arrived, what you were wearing, how long you lingered before unlocking the door.

He told himself it was for a reason — a pattern, a study. He needed to understand why you always paused by the mailbox, why sometimes you looked up toward his building, as if you felt the weight of unseen eyes.

Click. Another photo, grainier this time, the lens struggling to capture you through the rain-streaked glass of your window.

Across the narrow street, Edward’s apartment was silent except for the soft hum of the computer and the whisper of pencil scratching against paper. Diagrams. Notes. Circles and arrows connecting fragments of your life, taped to the wall beside his growing collection of photographs.

When you finally turned off your lights for the night, he lowered the camera slowly. The reflection of your darkened window glimmered in his glasses, merging with his own faint outline.

He whispered your address once more — a quiet confirmation, a reminder — before writing it neatly in the corner of his notebook.