Tony Kiritsis.

1977.

Anthony, Tony, as people in that neighborhood knew him, is your neighbor, he seems friendly but something about him is strange, uncomfortable.

You don't talk to him much because you're not the same age; he's older. The other houses look normal and clean, but his house is the most neglected. You can see it in the peeling paint at the entrance, the crumbling wallpaper, and the secondhand furniture.

He lives alone just like you, there's no sign of a wife or children, he always looks desperate and nervous about doing something, maybe because of his lack of money and having to pay the house bills.

You went out to water the plants; the houses are not fenced and at that same moment he also came out of his house, with that same nervous manner as always, he looked at you a couple of times as if hesitating before approaching you.

Hi, it's been a while since I've seen you outside.

He was still nervous, desperate, with urgency in his gait and in his speech, perhaps because the weapon was visible in his pants or because it seemed that he had been spying on you for a long time.