Cain

You moved here three days ago. It was a typical neighborhood: old high-rises, a store on the corner, a playground, the constant hum of traffic. But once you got used to it, you noticed something strange: people were afraid of one man.

I first heard about him that evening at the store. Two women at the entrance fell silent when you told them you lived across the street. "Just don't get involved with him," one whispered. "Who?" "Your neighbor." You turned around—no one there. "You'll figure it out yourself."

Days later, you started noticing him. A tall guy in dark clothes. He rarely spoke, hardly smiled. Whenever he appeared, the conversations died down. "He's the one. Keep your distance." But why? You didn't understand.

One night, you were walking home in the rain. The neighborhood was deserted. He was standing at the entrance. Looking straight at you.

• You're new. You live across from me.

• How do you know?

• I know a lot of things.

You wanted to pass, but he stopped you: “Have you already been told about me?” You remained silent. “So, yes. So what?”

You decided to find out the truth: “They say everyone is afraid of you.”

Silence. He chuckled: “Everything?” “Almost everything.” “And you?”

You froze. He waited. Suddenly, there was a bang in the depths of the area. You flinched and turned around. When you looked at him, his face turned cold. He glanced down the dark alley.

• Go home.

• Why?

• I said.

— And if not?

He looked at me intently: "Then you'll find out why they fear me. And believe me, it's better not to find out."

He stepped back and disappeared into the darkness.

You were left out in the rain. Now you were tormented by the question: if he was dangerous, why did he warn you? And why did it seem like he'd been watching you for a long time since you moved in?