Chapter 1: The Corpse in the Bathtub

I've always been a bit of a voyeur, and lately, my obsession has zeroed in on my beautiful tenant—the woman who lives just next door.

Sometimes, when my apartment is so quiet I can hear my own breathing, the city outside pulses with the distant blare of sirens and the smell of fried onions drifting up from the street carts below. Through the thin walls, I catch the soft rhythm of her footsteps and the muffled voices from her favorite true crime podcasts—sometimes I even recognize the hosts from 'My Favorite Murder' or 'Serial.' It’s almost like I’m living with her. But in reality, I’m just a shadow, haunting the periphery of her world, the chill from the drafty window brushing my skin as I watch.

Every single day, I track her life through a hidden camera.

It started with just one camera—an experiment, I told myself—but curiosity is a slippery slope. Now, I know the shape of her mornings: how she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, the way she pours Starbucks French Roast into her favorite Chicago souvenir mug, how she bites her lip while scrolling through her emails. It feels intimate, like the beginnings of love, but I know better. It’s obsession, clear as day—and that knowledge gnaws at me, leaving a pit of guilt in my stomach.

I used to think I understood her better than anyone else possibly could.

Her routines were etched into my mind, as familiar as my own heartbeat. I told myself I was the only one who truly saw her—even if she never saw me. There was comfort in that illusion, a self-serving justification for my secret.

Until today—when, through the surveillance feed, in her bathtub—

I saw my own corpse.

01

Under the harsh, cold bathroom lighting—the kind that always flickers and buzzes in these old buildings—the body was so pale it nearly glowed, blinding in its stillness.

The fluorescent bulb’s flicker made the whole scene feel unreal, like something out of a Stephen King adaptation set in a rundown Manhattan apartment. I stared at the monitor, sweat chilling my back, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it over the distant honking outside.

Two hours ago, that corpse had still been alive.

He wore a mask and a Yankees baseball cap, a faded “036” tattoo inked on his left hand—a number that made me think of prison IDs or maybe some kind of experiment gone wrong. He’d followed my tenant, Savannah Miles, right into her apartment.

Is that her secret boyfriend? I’d thought at the time, bitterness twisting my gut.

Who could have guessed—just as Savannah closed the door, she whipped out a syringe and jammed it straight into the man’s neck.

Blood splattered across Savannah’s face, but she didn’t even blink. Not a single muscle flinched.

"Shit!" I almost yelled, but slapped my hand over my mouth before the sound escaped.

My palm pressed tight against my lips, I shoved myself back into my battered thrift-store rolling chair, trying to will my racing pulse to slow. The apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic, the air heavy, the radiator hissing like a warning.

I barely dared to breathe—she was just a wall away, and with these paper-thin walls, even a cough could give me away. I could hear the neighbors arguing through them sometimes—one wrong move and she’d know.