The Killer Next Door

I was sound asleep when loud bangs suddenly woke me. My heart pounded, and I sat up, confused.

As a true crime enthusiast, the moment the sharp crack of gunshots tore through the air, my mind didn’t hesitate—it spiraled into instinctive terror. The sound was  unmistakable: a deafening, metallic thunder that echoed off the walls like a warning. My chest tightened. Every chilling documentary, every brutal case I’d dissected in fascination, suddenly felt too real, too close. My pulse surged, thudding in my ears louder than the shots themselves. I froze, breath caught in my throat, eyes darting wildly toward the sound. The air around me felt heavier, charged with fear. And the only thought pounding through my head was raw and urgent—I’m in danger.

Gunshots? In our building?

From the crack of my bedroom door, a blinding light spilled into the hallway, harsh and unwelcome in the dead quiet of 2AM. My heart was still racing from the jarring gunshot sounds that had ripped me out of sleep. Creeping forward, bare feet silent on the cold floor, I peeked into the living room like I was the lead in one of the documentaries I binge.

And there she was.

Tiya—my chaos incarnate of a roommate, my best friend, and the only person I’d tolerate at this hour—was nestled into the couch like a gremlin queen, eyes wide and gleaming in the glow of the TV. The screen flashed between scenes of dark corridors and grainy police footage. In her hand, she clutched the now-empty cookie jar like a prized possession, the lid dangling from her fingers, crumbs dusting her “Trust No One” hoodie.

“You maniac, I thought we were under attack,” I groaned, stepping in with arms folded.

She blinked up, not even flinching. “Chill, Nishu. It’s just The Night Stalker Tapes. You should really watch this episode—the crime scene is, like, terrifyingly well-shot.”

I shot her a look that could kill. “You stole the last cookie, woke me up with fake gunshots, and now you're giving me film reviews?”

Tiya grinned, utterly unbothered. “I would never steal. I was emotionally snacking. There’s a difference.”

Rolling my eyes, I moved to grab the remote from her, but she held up her hand in a peace offering. “Okay, okay. I surrender. But can you please make me a cup of that magical chamomile witch brew of yours? I’ve got a night shift to survive, and also, you’re not getting out of hearing the date tea. Pun intended.”

I sighed dramatically but turned toward the kitchen. “You only love me for my tea, don’t you?”

“I also love you for your sarcasm and your tendency to look like a grumpy owl when you’ve just woken up,” she called after me sweetly.

The kettle started to hum as I prepped her favorite mug.

I paused, one brow raising. “Wait… Tiyu, that lawyer you met—he wasn’t named Arjun, was he?”

She gasped so loud, I heard the cookie jar hit the floor.

“Shut up, Nishu! You are NOT ready for this story.”

Tiya scrambled upright on the couch, tossing the empty cookie jar aside like it was a mic she just dropped. Her eyes sparkled, and her voice dropped to that dramatic whisper she always used when spilling secrets.

“Nishu, listen to me carefully,” she said, scooting to the edge of the couch like she was revealing state secrets. “Arjun is not just hot. He’s a hot bomb. Capital H, capital B.”

I raised an eyebrow, stirring honey into the tea. “Define hot bomb.”

She held up one finger. “Tall. Six foot or taller—I swear, I had to look up to talk to him, and you know that never happens.”

Second finger. “Hair like he walked out of a shampoo commercial. Like, I wanted to run a background check and my fingers through it.”

Third finger. “Voice. Deep. Calm. I think my IQ dropped five points when he said ‘So, what do you do, Tiya?’”

I stifled a laugh, placing her tea on the table. “So basically, he’s a walking romance novel?”

She nodded vigorously, taking the cup with both hands like it was a sacred offering. “But that’s not even the best part, Nishu. He’s a lawyer. A criminal lawyer. His firm only handles homicide cases. HOMICIDE, babe.”

I stared. “You’re dating a man who swims in murder files for a living and you’re excited?”

“Excited?” she gasped. “Nishu, if this works out, I’ll be getting first-hand details of murder cases before they even make it to Reddit. Real crime scene stuff. Unreleased info. Imagine the power. The gossip. The justice.”

I gave her a long look. “You don’t want a boyfriend. You want an inside source for your crime obsession.”

She took a sip of tea and winked. “Why not both?”

I shook my head, chuckling despite myself. “Just promise me if I end up in a Netflix documentary one day, it’s not because your hot bomb boyfriend needed a case to solve.”

“Relax, Nishu,” she said with a smirk. “You’re too boring to be murdered.”

I threw a cushion at her.

Tiya was mid-sentence, dramatically reenacting Arjun’s “You look like trouble” line, when a sharp thunk echoed through the apartment. We both froze.

It was unmistakable—a car door. Loud, solid, and far too distinct in the dead quiet of 2AM.

There was no engine before it. No footsteps after. Just that single sound hanging heavy in the silence.

I turned toward the window, heartbeat quickening. “Did you hear that?”

Tiya, mug suspended midair, whispered, “Please tell me that was you closing the fridge.”

“I’m sitting right here.”

We moved at the same time, creeping to the balcony window like we were starring in our own late-night thriller. I peeled the curtain back just a sliver, just enough to peek through.

From our third-floor apartment, we had a perfect view of our crescent-shaped building. It curled around the central parking lot like a sleeping snake, each balcony a silent eye. The amber glow of the streetlight flickered overhead, catching on the glossy roof of a black sedan parked near the far edge.

Tiya leaned in. “That’s not creepy at all.”

Then movement. We saw her.

A lone figure stepped out from the driver’s side—tall, slim, completely cloaked in black. Hoodie pulled up. Movements calm. Controlled. Like she’d done this before.

No panic. No rush.

She crossed the lot without hesitation, heading straight for the lift lobby on the opposite side of the building. Just before entering, she reached under her hoodie, and that’s when we both saw it—clear as day.

A gun.

Not waved. Not brandished. Just… placed there. Like it belonged to her.

I couldn’t speak. My mouth had gone dry.

“She has a gun, Tiyu,” I finally whispered.

Tiya didn’t blink. “Are we witnessing a murder setup? Are we about to be on Unsolved Crimes?”

We watched as the lobby doors slid shut behind her. The parking lot fell back into silence, as if nothing had happened.

Then—click.

A light flicked on in one of the windows on the second floor.

Directly across the curve from us, above the lot, a soft yellow glow illuminated one window—blinds open, room still. Apartment 207.

Tiya leaned in. “That’s 207. Right above the laundry room. Second floor, left corner.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m a map of this place in human form,” she said, voice low.

We stared at the glowing window. No movement. No silhouette. Just light—and silence.

“Do you know who lives there?” I asked.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone go in or out of that flat.”

Something icy slid down my spine.

And then Tiya whispered, “What if she didn’t go to 207… what if she’s already from there?”

The kettle clicked off behind us. The TV remained paused on a murder reenactment. And the only thing louder than the silence was the sound of our breath catching in our throats.

Just as my brain was starting to spiral—calculating how long it would take for police to respond, how much tea was left in the kettle in case we needed caffeine-fueled courage—Tiya gasped.

“Oh my god. I do know who lives there.”

I turned to her, startled. “I thought you said—”

“I forgot,” she cut me off, eyes wide. “It’s Kabir Khanna. Apartment 207. Newly divorced. Hot. Handsome. Wears suits to throw out garbage. That guy.”

I blinked. “That guy?”

She nodded furiously. “Mid-thirties. Drives a black Jag, sometimes a bike. Always broody. Always polite. Owns some kind of consulting firm or maybe an export business—I don’t know, I stop listening after ‘divorced.’ But he’s definitely rich, definitely mysterious, and definitely hiding some emotionally complex backstory.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So basically, your dream Hinge profile?”

“Exactly,” she whispered, eyes back on the window. “And now he’s… connected to a gun-carrying hooded mystery woman?”

We both looked again. The light in 207 still glowed warm, unchanged. Still no movement.

“What if she’s his ex-wife?” I asked.

“What if she’s his next target?” Tiya shot back, clutching her tea.

We stared at the window like it might blink first.

I couldn’t shake the image of the gun. Of her steady walk. Of the way that car door had thudded into the silence, as if announcing something.

Tiya nudged me. “We need to find out more. I’ll message Arjun.”

I gave her a look. “What are you going to say? ‘Hey babe, remember that homicide firm you work at—any chance you’ve got dirt on my hot neighbor?’”

She already had her phone out. “More or less.”

The screen of 207 remained still. But the night felt different now—alive with questions.

Who was the woman?

Why the gun?

And what, exactly, was going on inside Apartment 207?

Tiya was already typing furiously on her phone, probably messaging Arjun some wildly dramatic version of what we just saw, while I stood frozen by the window. My logical brain told me to step back, close the curtain, and go to sleep. But the part of me that had seen one too many late-night murder documentaries refused to budge.

“We need to do something,” I whispered.

Tiya looked up. “Like what? Storm 207 with a flashlight and your leftover Diwali ladle?”

I ignored her. “We can’t just sit here. What if he’s in trouble?”

She sighed, grabbing the empty cookie jar like it might suddenly be useful. “Okay, Nishu, calm down. Let’s just… think. Rationally.”

I started pacing. “Option one: we do nothing. Risk someone getting shot, or worse. Option two: we call security and look like paranoid lunatics. Option three…”

“We investigate,” Tiya said, her eyes lighting up.

I stared at her. “You’re serious?”

She shrugged. “You said it yourself—what if he’s in danger? Or what if that woman’s dangerous? Either way, we’re not going to sleep tonight without knowing.”

Just as we were spiraling through our hypothetical Operation Kabir Rescue, the light in 207 suddenly went off.

No flicker. No dimming.

Just a quiet, instant blackout—like someone had flipped the switch and sealed the story shut.

We both froze.

“She turned the light off,” I said quietly, almost to myself.

Tiya joined me at the window, eyes narrowing. “That was fast. What was she even doing in there?”

I didn’t answer. We watched in tense silence for a few more minutes, waiting, the air between us buzzing like a live wire.

Then, movement.

The lift lobby doors opened on the opposite side of the curve, and there she was again.

Same hoodie. Same steady walk. No limp, no panic, no visible blood or… chaos. Just calm, practiced ease as she crossed the lot back toward her car.

She slid into the driver’s seat like nothing had happened, started the engine without hurry, and pulled out of the parking lot in a smooth arc, taillights vanishing into the night.

Tiya exhaled. “Okay. So... she’s not a panicked criminal fleeing the scene.”

“Or maybe she’s just a very composed one,” I muttered, still watching.

But truthfully, she didn’t look dangerous anymore. If anything, she looked… done. Like she’d delivered something. Or checked on someone. Like she’d been invited.

We stared at the now-dark window of 207. No shadows. No sounds.

Tiya rubbed her eyes. “Maybe we overreacted.”

“Maybe,” I said. Though the image of the gun still hovered at the edge of my mind.

We stood there for another minute, half-expecting something else to shift.

Nothing did.

Tiya yawned. “I say we call it. Sleep now, investigate with breakfast.”

“Agreed,” I said, finally pulling the curtain closed.

We shuffled back toward our bedrooms, the half-drunk tea forgotten, the TV still paused on a reenactment corpse. And as I slid into bed, heart still stubbornly beating a little too fast, one quiet thought slipped through the fog:

What exactly happened in 207 tonight?