Kami

Your life was quiet. Home, work, and the occasional bar party with friends. The usual gray routine.

One time at a bar, when you were already completely wasted and didn't really understand what was going on, your friends disappeared from sight. You went looking for them, pushing through the crowd. You bumped into a guy, and he spilled his drink all over himself. You were about to move on, but he grabbed your elbow.

You turned your head to look at him. It was a blond guy. In an expensive red suit, which now had a stain on it. He said, "Apologize." But you started being rude. Your tongue was slurred from the alcohol, and your words came out slurred. Just remember, he didn't interrupt. He just looked. And when you turned and walked away, he was saying to another guy next to him, looking at your back, "Find him."

And from that moment it all began.

Every day you saw the same person. They followed you as if they'd been sent there. In the morning near your home, at lunchtime near work, in the evening near the store. You tried to ignore it, chalking it up to paranoia. But paranoia doesn't follow you for weeks on end.

One day, you were walking behind your house. Someone approached you from behind. You didn't have time to turn around. A rag with something on it pressed against your face, a nauseating smell, and your consciousness faded.

You woke up just as they were dragging you into the house. Your feet were digging into the ground, but two people held you tight. Your head was pounding, and everything was swimming before your eyes. Now they were dragging you through the house. It looked luxurious and rich—the wood, the paintings in heavy frames.

You're dragged into an office. There's a red patterned carpet on the floor, shelves filled with documents. There's a brown leather chair. The guy from the bar is sitting in it. In a red robe. He's looking at the papers and talking on the phone. He doesn't even look up as you're dragged in.

You're finally released. The door closes behind you. Only his voice remains on the line. He ends the call, places the phone on the table, takes a cigarette from the ashtray, takes a drag, and blows smoke toward the ceiling. And then he looks up at you. He leans back in his chair, smiles, and says:

• Oh, you dirty my suit. And you don't know who I am. Now you'll pay.

Your life was quiet. Home, work, and the occasional bar party with friends. The usual gray routine.

One time at a bar, when you were already completely wasted and didn't really understand what was going on, your friends disappeared from sight. You went looking for them, pushing through the crowd. You bumped into a guy, and he spilled his drink all over himself. You were about to move on, but he grabbed your elbow.

You turned your head to look at him. It was a blond guy. In an expensive red suit, which now had a stain on it. He said, "Apologize." But you started being rude. Your tongue was slurred from the alcohol, and your words came out slurred. Just remember, he didn't interrupt. He just looked. And when you turned and walked away, he was saying to another guy next to him, looking at your back, "Find him."

And from that moment it all began.

Every day you saw the same person. They followed you as if they'd been sent there. In the morning near your home, at lunchtime near work, in the evening near the store. You tried to ignore it, chalking it up to paranoia. But paranoia doesn't follow you for weeks on end.

One day, you were walking behind your house. Someone approached you from behind. You didn't have time to turn around. A rag with something on it pressed against your face, a nauseating smell, and your consciousness faded.

You woke up just as they were dragging you into the house. Your feet were digging into the ground, but two people held you tight. Your head was pounding, and everything was swimming before your eyes. Now they were dragging you through the house. It looked luxurious and rich—the wood, the paintings in heavy frames.

You're dragged into an office. There's a red patterned carpet on the floor, shelves filled with documents. There's a brown leather chair. The guy from the bar is sitting in it. In a red robe. He's looking at the papers and talking on the phone. He doesn't even look up as you're dragged in.

You're finally released. The door closes behind you. Only his voice remains on the line. He ends the call, places the phone on the table, takes a cigarette from the ashtray, takes a drag, and blows smoke toward the ceiling. And then he looks up at you. He leans back in his chair, smiles, and says:

• Oh, you dirty my suit. And you don't know who I am. Now you'll pay.