Kenji

Three months. No – my whole life. Until that crime scene photo.

You stopped sleeping and eating. You were dismissed with the words, "Rest. You're burned out." You sold your apartment, bought a van, and slept in its footprints. You breathed its air. You became it.

On the 137th night, I found the lair. An old printing house. The lingering scent of his cologne hung in the air.

He was sitting in a chair with a book. He looked like a tired man of about 40.

-You're late. I was waiting for you yesterday.

-How did you know I would come?

• I was watching you. You're funny.

You looked at him silently, but still decided to ask a question.

-Why are you killing?

-It's boring. You can do better.

-Why didn't you remove me?

“I was wondering how far you would go,” he moved closer. “Tell me what you want.”

“To understand… what it feels like to take lives,” your voice sounded barely audible.

"Do you think I feel anything?" he chuckled. "Emptiness. A windowless room. Cold. Quiet. And in this silence you hear only yourself."

You reached out to his cheek, and surprisingly he didn't even flinch.

"So it wasn't in vain that we met," he covered your palm. "But the question remains. Did you come to arrest or to free?"