I load the footage from the camera, the one that glitched.
The screen stutters. Then fuzzes. Then skips.
Exactly four seconds gone.
Four seconds is enough time to plant something. To break a lock. To watch.
I rewind. Frame by frame.
There, right before the glitch. One frame. A blur, barely distinguishable. Human height. Standing just behind the fence. Gone in the next second.
Could be a trick of the light.
Couldbe.
But doubt is a luxury in this situation.
I lean back, eyes still fixed on the frozen frame. A faint pulse drums at the base of my skull. That slow, building pressure I’ve learned to trust. The kind that shows up right before something breaks loose.
That fucker made a move again, huh?
I close the laptop. Pack everything back into the box. Lock it. Slide it into its place behind the panel.
Fifty minutes later, I’m across town, sitting in a corner booth of a pop-up diner. It’s one of those trendy places that looks like it’ll disappear in a month but somehow hasn’t yet. It sits across the street from Sabine’s job, close enough that I can track every angle of her building without being obvious. I’ve been here enough times that the waitress doesn’t even ask anymore. She knows I won’t touch the coffee and learned not to ask about it anymore.
From this seat, I can see the entrance to Sabine’s building as well as everything around it.
Crosswalk, intersection, mailbox, the flow of foot traffic two blocks down. Iit’s all on display.
It’s a rhythm I know by heart. Predictable. Repetitive.
But today, something’s off.
There’s a man standing by the mailbox across the street.
He’s wearing a long black coat, the kind that hangs heavy and sharp at the edges. A curved-brim hat rests on his head. It's sleek, expensive, probably worth more than Mom’s car. He’s not on his phone. No earbuds, no briefcase, no dog leash. No newspaper. No coffee.
No reason to be there.
He doesn’t check the time. Doesn’t pace. Doesn’t glance around like he’s waiting for someone.
He just stands.
Five minutes go by.
He doesn’t move.
I slide out of the booth, drop some bills on the table without counting, and step outside. My footsteps are calm. Measured. I cross the street without hesitation, veer slightly left, like I haven’t seen him at all.
But I’ve seen everything.
The scuffed boots Years of wear.
The cigarette burn near the cuff. Right sleeve, just above the wrist.
The uneven weight in the coat, too heavy on one side. Could be a wallet. Could be a weapon. Doesn’t feel like either.
His jeans are new. Wranglers. Still creased, stiff at the knees. But those boots have seen more than just sidewalks. They’ve been through mud and concrete and maybe blood.
