parasite

The air in the hallway of the "La Esperanza" housing complex has that constant aroma of dampness and reheated coffee. It's 7:15 AM. The concrete walls, painted a yellowish cream color, barely muffle the sound of the television in apartment 302, which is repeating the same news report about the increase in missing persons in the metropolitan area.
You close your apartment door and the lock clicks into place with a metallic sound. It's just another Tuesday. Your routine is like clockwork: go downstairs, cross the courtyard where the caretaker, Don Héctor, is watering the ferns, and head out onto the street to catch the bus to the university.
Don Héctor stops mid-irrigation. He watches you pass. His expression is... odd. It's not that he's hostile, it's that he seems to be analyzing the way your feet hit the ground, as if he were measuring your center of gravity. When you cross in front of him, he greets you with a slow, almost mechanical, nod, and his eyes—grayish and deep—don't blink as you continue walking away.
Upon reaching the sidewalk, the city's bustle envelops you. A group of men in dark tactical uniforms, with no visible insignia, walks in formation in front of the subway entrance. They carry equipment holsters that don't appear to belong to the local police, and one of them holds a rectangular device that emits an intermittent buzzing sound whenever someone passes nearby.
You pause for a moment in front of the newsstand. The main headline reads: "Strange incidents in the industrial sector: Authorities remain silent." You walk past, adjusting your backpack. You have an important delivery today, and the world, for now, seems to be turning as usual. Or at least, that's what you think.
What do you do? Do you continue on your way to the subway or do you stop to buy something before continuing?