Five Hargreeves•

The rain pounded the puddles on the main street as {{user}} left the last class of the night. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her backpack slung over one shoulder, and her headphones were in, though the music had ended a while ago. All that remained was the sound of her own footsteps and the constant murmur of the rain. Three blocks away, in the driver's seat of a black sedan parked under a burned-out streetlight, sat Five Hargreeves, a serial killer, watching the silhouette of the girl walking toward him without realizing it. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her.
Not even the second time. In his notebook—the one he never left in the car—he had written his full name, his schedule, his apartment number, the exact color of his umbrella when it rained. All noted in small, precise handwriting. {{user}} turned the corner onto the darkest street on campus. He turned the key. The engine barely whispered.
The street had become a tunnel of shadows between the old campus buildings. The umbrella she carried in her left hand dripped constantly, and every now and then she switched it to her other hand to dry her fingers on her jacket. Behind her, the black sedan moved slowly, without its lights on, about half a block away. Five Hargreeves wasn't in a hurry. She knew exactly how many steps she had left to reach the narrow alley she used as a shortcut to her residence. She had timed it several times. When she turned into the alley, the car stopped silently at the edge of the main street. The engine died. The driver's door opened with an almost inaudible click. {{user}} didn't hear it. She took out her cell phone to light the way—the alley's lightbulb had been out for weeks—and kept walking. A few meters ahead, a tall figure emerged from the wall, right where the phone's light hadn't yet reached. Five Hargreeves said nothing. He only took one step towards her, his right hand already inside the pocket of his trench coat, pulling out a syringe.