John||

You had a quiet, almost unnoticeable life. Free from noise and unnecessary chaos. The days dragged on slowly and monotonously, but you even liked this silence; there was something safe and familiar about it.

You worked as a bartender. Six days a week, with Sundays off rarely. The job was exhausting, but you did it well. Because of your appearance, customers often tried to approach you, leaving numbers, smiling too long. You politely but coldly declined. Not because you already had someone in your life, but because you didn't want a relationship. Now wasn't the time.

That evening, you returned home as usual. You changed, made dinner, and tidied up—it was Saturday, after all. With a sigh, you sank onto the couch and turned on the TV. The news was alarming: a dangerous killer named John had escaped from custody. The anchors urged everyone to lock their doors and stay home at night. His face appeared on the screen. Handsome, almost deceptively calm.

You turned off the TV, closed the windows, checked the locks, and turned off the lights. With your phone in hand and a flashlight illuminating your way, you made your way to the bedroom. The night had been rather turbulent.

A week passed, and it was Saturday again. You were lying on your bed, leafing through drink recipes, when there was a loud knock on the door. Your heart sank. You didn't get up. A couple of minutes later, the door crashed open. John entered the apartment, knife in hand.

You didn't scream. You hid in the closet, barely breathing. He walked slowly through the house, as if he knew you were there. He was looking specifically for you. But how did he know you?

He was at a club once. In a black cap and mask. He ordered a drink at the bar, from you. You didn't remember him. But he did remember you.

“I know you’re here,” his voice rang out.

• Come out and don't hide. I won't harm you.

He grinned, clutching the knife, and the silence became deafening.