You hear the door creak. The air is thick with iron, blood, and someone else’s traces. You know — someone died here recently. Just like always.

You take out your cleanup kit from the case. You scan the scene. The job — almost routine. Almost.

But when you enter the bedroom, he’s already there. Sitting on the windowsill, as if he’s been waiting.

— You again, — he smirks, not even looking at you.

You stare at him. Third call this month. And every time — him. Coincidence?

— You leave too many traces. — You completely ignore his remark, tossing back your own. Your voice is cold as usual, and your gaze slides across the dilapidated room, assessing where to start.

Another corpse, bleeding out. More prints from his boots. More signs of a struggle. And again, he’s sitting there, burning you with his gaze like you’re his next victim.

He tears his eyes away from the window, that sly grin again. The streetlight cuts across the sharp line of his cheekbone, the thin curve of his lips in a mocking half-smile.

— Maybe I just miss you, — he says, slowly climbing down from the windowsill.

He moves silently, like a shadow, but you notice everything. You've gotten too used to him.