Prologue
Prologue
The first rule was patience.
He had waited for three nights. Three long, quiet nights, parked across the street in a rusted sedan no one looked at twice. Curtains drawn, lights off. No television. No music. Just silence and the careful study of a woman’s life.
He knew when she got home from work. He knew she preferred tea over coffee, chamomile before bed. He knew she called her sister every Wednesday at nine, laughed too loudly, and never noticed the man in the shadows watching her through binoculars.
She had a dog once. A yappy little terrier. It vanished a month ago. She never replaced it.
That made things easier.
The Shadow Man adjusted his gloves. Midnight now. The house across the street was dark. She was inside, sleeping, or reading in bed with that lamp of hers. He could almost picture it: her hands curled around a paperback, eyes heavy with fatigue, one light still glowing in the upstairs window.
He liked the quiet ones best.
Crossing the street was simple. A drizzle had begun, masking his footsteps. He wore dark clothes, moved with the stillness of habit. The lock on her back door was flimsy. A joke. He had it undone in seconds.
Inside, he paused. He always paused. Let the house breathe around him. Listen for creaks. Listen for patterns.
Then he moved.
Up the stairs.
Past the photos on the wall — a family smiling at the beach, a childhood graduation. All moments of life she thought were permanent. None of it mattered now.
He entered the bedroom.
She stirred, sensing him. They always did. Some primal instinct whispered to them in those last moments: you are not alone.
Her eyes blinked open, confusion first, then terror.
He leaned close, so close she could feel his breath. “You’re part of my story now.”
And then, silence.
When he left, the house was as quiet as he had found it. Only one new detail remained — a black ribbon tied delicately around her wrist, a signature only he understood.
