I didn't hear the police sirens at first.
Maybe it was because my mind had been too loud all day. Maybe because I kept replaying every step I'd taken, every hallway I'd walked through, every face that had turned toward me a little too slowly, like they finally recognized something. Or maybe it was because I'd been staring at that last souvenir again, the one I swore I didn't keep—my fingers brushing over it like it was some precious charm instead of what it really was.
But the sirens were coming. And they were coming for me.
I looked at the apartment door, thin wood, lighter than it looked. The hallway outside was quiet for now, but I knew it wouldn't stay that way. If they were doing this, if they were finally narrowing in, then they wouldn't knock politely. They'd come in like they always do in movies—swift, loud, and sure of themselves. I sat down on the edge of the bed, the boards creaking under me, and exhaled slowly.
It's funny how calm I felt.
You'd think someone innocent would be crying or pacing, right? They'd be calling a lawyer, grabbing proof, shouting to anyone who'd listen about how wrong all of this is. That's how I always told you I was—confused, scared, just another person living close to horror but not involved. That's how people should behave.
But I wasn't doing any of that.
I just stared at the wall and let the truth bleed into my thoughts with a strange sort of relief.
You know, I wasn't always planning to tell you everything. At first, I thought I'd keep pretending forever. That I'd convince you I was just unlucky, or anxious, or curious in the way regular people get when something terrible happens in their city. Maybe I'd go on and on about coincidences and misunderstandings and incompetent detectives.
But there's a limit to how long someone can pretend to be innocent. Eventually the cracks show, whether you want them to or not.
And mine were showing now.
The detective—poor guy—had been falling apart for weeks. I could see it in his face every time he showed up on the news or released another frustrated statement. He was close, and he knew it. He just didn't know that the person he was hunting was walking the same streets as him, ordering coffee in the same shops, standing beside him at the crosswalk while he looked at crime scene photos on his phone.
He didn't know he'd talked to me more times than he'd talked to his own wife this month.
I'd actually come to admire him. It's strange, right? Admiring the one person whose job is to cage you. But there was something about the way he kept trying, long after most detectives would've given up or passed the case to someone else. He couldn't let go. He was hungry for the truth.
And it was almost flattering.
Almost.
But he made mistakes. Everyone does. His biggest one was believing people who looked harmless couldn't be dangerous. He trusted soft faces, tired eyes, clean shirts. He trusted the image more than the evidence. So he kept chasing the wrong men and women, building profiles that came close but never close enough.
Until recently.
The wall of his office, from what I've seen through windows and press shots, used to be a mess—disconnected pins, twisted strings, too many circles drawn around too many wrong names. But in the last week, that chaos started to shrink. The circles got tighter. The lines aimed in one direction. My direction.
Every place I visited.
Every person I passed.
Every casual route I walked "just to clear my mind."
He plotted it all.
And when I realized he was focusing on me, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Excitement.
Not fear. Not dread.
Excitement.
The truth is, hiding gets boring. Pretending gets exhausting. You start wanting someone to notice. Someone to say the wrong thing, or look at you a little too long, or ask you a question they shouldn't know how to ask.
You want someone to understand you.
You want someone to see you.
I'm not saying I wanted to be caught—let's clear that up. I like my freedom. I like walking around without anyone knowing what my hands have done. But I wanted someone to feel close. Someone to figure out the edges of the puzzle, even if they never got the full picture.
The detective almost did.
Almost.
I stood up from the bed, walked to the window, and slid it open. The cold air hit me instantly. The city looked calm from up here—streetlights casting warm circles, people walking like nothing in their world had ever been touched by violence. I've always liked that view. A city pretending to be clean.
A city pretending nothing in the dark ever mattered.
Down below, a car door slammed. Two more.
They were here.
I leaned my arms on the window frame, letting the breeze cool my face. I wondered if you'd guessed the truth before now. Maybe you suspected something was wrong in the earlier chapters. Maybe I slipped up once or twice. Maybe I sounded too concerned, too emotional, too invested. Maybe the way I talked about the detective, or about the murders, should've tipped you off.
Or maybe you believed everything I told you.
People usually do.
After all, I never lied in a clumsy way. I didn't tell cartoonish stories or swing wildly between moods. I didn't shout my innocence or bury you in details. I kept it simple. I kept it clean. I gave you just enough fear, just enough sadness, just enough confusion that you'd think, Yes, this is how a normal person reacts.
Normal.
That's a funny word.
Do you want to hear something honest? Something real this time?
The truth is, I never once thought of myself as normal. Not since the first time I realized what I could do without shaking. Not since the first time I looked down at someone and felt nothing but clarity. Not since the first time I walked home afterward, humming quietly, as if I'd just finished a long day at work instead of what I actually did.
Some people call themselves monsters. I don't.
Monsters lose control. I never have.
Monsters act on instinct. I don't.
Monsters want chaos. I prefer precision.
So no, I don't think I'm a monster. I think I'm someone who understands myself better than most people ever will.
The footsteps in the hall grew louder. Heavy boots. Three sets, maybe four. A quiet voice giving instructions. They wouldn't break down the door right away—not if they thought I was dangerous. They'd position themselves. They'd plan the entry. They'd try to take me alive.
That was their mistake.
I stepped away from the window and walked toward the drawer where I kept the things I shouldn't have kept. Souvenirs. A ring. A torn piece of fabric. A pocketknife with someone else's initials carved into the handle. Little things that felt warm to the touch even when they were cold.
I didn't take any of them with me.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I didn't need them anymore.
My fingers were steady as I closed the drawer and crossed the room. I paused once, looking at the door—thin wood, cracking paint, one dent near the bottom from when a delivery guy kicked it after I took too long to answer.
They would come through that door in less than a minute.
"Open up! Police!"
There it was.
The first official knock. Loud, firm, practiced. No hesitation.
I smiled.
For a second—a brief, warm second—I thought about opening the door and letting them see me as I am. Not the version I've been telling you about. Not the soft, harmless narrator who kept insisting he was just close to the chaos, not inside it. But the real me.
But then the second knock came. Harder.
I walked back to the window.
The fire escape waited outside, shadowed but sturdy. I'd practiced climbing it so many times that I could do it blindfolded. Not because I expected this moment, but because I liked knowing every possible way out of every place I've ever stayed.
I swung one leg over the sill.
Another shout from behind the door.
Another order.
Another second slipping away.
I looked over my shoulder once—not at the room, not at the souvenirs, not at the life I'd lived here. Those things didn't matter. They were props. I looked back only to say goodbye to the version of myself you thought you knew.
The last comforting lie.
Then I dropped onto the fire escape.
My boots barely made a sound.
And just like that—
I was gone.
The police burst into the apartment behind me, shouting, searching, doing everything too late and too loudly. Their footsteps thundered through rooms that were already empty. They expected a cornered animal.
They got an empty cage.
As I climbed down and slipped into the alley, blending into the dark, I felt lighter than I had in years. No more pretending. No more soft words. No more disguises.
The truth finally broke.
And it felt good.
I pulled up my hood, walked into the street, and joined the crowd. Just another face. Just another body in motion. Just another person you'd never look at twice.
Freedom tastes different when you've earned it.
When you've taken it.
When you've stolen it back from the hands reaching for your throat.
The detective would try again. He'd rebuild his wall, redraw his maps, re-examine every clue he missed. But he'd never get ahead of me again. He'd lost his chance.
And you?
Well, now you know what I am.
Now you know I lied.
Now you know every "comforting" thing I whispered was just another way to keep you close, keep you guessing, keep you looking anywhere but at me.
But don't worry.
I won't disappear completely.
I'll be around.
After all…
I haven't finished telling this story yet.
And there's still so much you don't know.