"What are you going to do?"
"My job," I replied and ended the call.
By dawn, I was on the roof of the building across the street from the client's apartment. The rooftop was flat and graveled, dotted with HVAC units that whined and stank. The city stretched in every direction, lights flicking on one by one, until the horizon was nothing but a grid of possible outcomes.
I sat cross-legged next to a ventilation duct, black windbreaker zipped to the jaw, binoculars glued to my face. My earpiece squatted in my left ear.
I had a direct line of sight into the client's apartment.
Kimberly Holt's life unfolded in a series of small, predictable movements.
At 7 AM, she woke up. The lights spilled first from behind the curtains of the bedroom window, then from the living room. The curtains were pushed open in twenty minutes. Lights went out. She headed to the kitchen, securing her hair into a ponytail with a beige scrunchie.
She made herself coffee and walked the perimeter of the apartment with the mug in her grip, slowly sipping on the drink. Then she pulled out a pastry from the fridge, popped it in the microwave for ten seconds, plated it, and went to her work desk. There, she opened her laptop and munched on whatever it was she considered breakfast.
She worked for a while, fingers flying over the keys, posture rigid. Occasionally, she would take a call. She wore an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants. Her slippers were the fluffy pink kind. When she took a break, it was always the same. A bottle of water from the fridge and a single pass through the living room. She double-checked the locks on the door and glanced out into the street.
Once, she stopped and stared at a photo on the wall. I tried to see her face, but the angle was wrong. All I saw was her grabbing the end of her ponytail and twisting it around her index finger.
Around 1 PM, she started making lunch. Chopped vegetables, sautéed something in a middle-sized pan, wiped down the counters after every step. I watched her mouth as she counted out the slices, lips moving in a silent arithmetic.
She ate at the bar, scrolling her phone with one hand and giggling at something. Every few minutes she'd freeze, glance at the window, and scan the street. I knew the signs. She was spooked. Hyper-vigilant, maybe, but not irrational. I catalogued the details anyway, filing each one for later.
What was she laughing at?
Memes?
Ask Viper to hack her phone and socials.
I shook off the thought.
Who the fuck cared?
After lunch, she watered her only plant and returned to her laptop. Around 3 PM, she went to the kitchen and grabbed something from the cabinet. I had to look very carefully to be able to deduce what it was in a blue pack. It was one of those organic dark chocolate-covered coconut sweets you'd see in the aisle of Whole Foods or Erewhon.
Her face was suddenly different as she bit into the candy. It went from plain to animated. Same way it changed when she giggled looking at something on her phone.
I wondered if sweets changed a person that much. That made me hungry, and I realized I hadn't had anything since I left the compound. From my backpack, I pulled out a chicken wrap. I'd always bring something with me on a stakeout since I never knew how long the task would last.
The day continued on.
There was nothing interesting going on objectively speaking, but I found myself stupidly fascinated by watching her. I imagined a day of a twenty-six-year-old woman would be all silly content creation, outfit trying, and chatting on the phone with girlfriends. But the client's day was quite boring. And the fact that I had to witness something ordinary made me strangely warm on the inside.
So that's how normal people lived…
After dinner, she paced the apartment again. Ten laps, twelve. I lost count. She didn't pick up the TV remote, didn't even look at it. Just walked the circles, hands jammed into the pockets of her hoodie she put on at some point.
She did some home chores for about an hour, then sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at her iPad. She looked like she was reading.
I shifted position for the hundredth time today, letting the gravel grind under my boots. The cold was setting in, but I didn't feel it. My body was running too hot for some reason. I kept the binoculars on her, waiting for the moment when she'd do something unexpected.
She never did.
By 10 PM, she turned off the lights. For a while, the apartment was just darkness and shadows, then I saw the curtains pulled shut in both rooms.
I kept watching.
Maybe it was the dream, or maybe it was the way she moved through the world—as if every second was a test she might fail. Whatever it was, I found myself reviewing her routine in my head again and again, looking for a pattern that maybe didn't exist.
