'I could transfer into one of them.'
The thought lingered. They were faster, more agile. Better predators than rodents.
But they were also conspicuous. A rat slipped through cracks, vanished into shadows. Cats drew attention.
'No. The rat body stays.'
His mind drifted to the maze of traps he passed on the way here. Rat poison, roach killer, sticky boards soaked in chemicals.
'Should I poison them?'
Practical. Efficient. Dump rat poison in their food bowls and wait.
Still, the image of them convulsing and foaming made his stomach clench. Maybe it was because his two daughters loved cats.
'Ridiculous. I've tortured dozens of people and I'm second guessing right now?'
In any case, the decision would have to wait.
For now, he had a building to map. Other targets to profile.
Francis retreated through the wall cavity, following the network of gaps and passages connecting every floor.
Whenever he passed a cluster of rodents, they squeaked like fools before scattering.
The building had twelve units. He already eliminated the tenant on the second floor and flagged the cat lady on the fourth.
Ten units left.
He started on the third floor, squeezing through a gap near the electrical panel and emerging behind a radiator. Voices bled through the thin walls.
"—told you to pick up milk—"
"—forgot, alright? Sue me—"
"—the kids need breakfast—"
Family. Multiple children.
He found a crack in the baseboard and peered through. A woman in her thirties stood at the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Two kids sat at the table — six and eight, maybe.
Right away, he decided this wasn't a priority for several reasons. First, he had a soft spot for kids and couldn't bear imagining what would happen to them if they lost their parents.
It was ironic. Even after choosing to act and think like a monster, some emotions refused to fade. Hard to forget, when all of this began with his love for his children.
Second reason was the difficulty. Families meant noise, rigid schedules, constant checks on one another. The moment someone went missing, the rest would panic.
'I'll check the others.'
The next unit was silent. No voices, no movement, no television.
Francis found a gap near the window and slipped inside.
Dust drifted through slanted sunlight. A single plate sat in the sink, crusted with dried food. Mail piled up on a small table.
'Works early or travels frequently.'
He memorized the layout and kept climbing.
The following unit held an elderly man who shuffled around in slippers, muttering under his breath.
'Easy target.'
The apartment next door was something else entirely.
Through a crack in the floorboard, he watched a woman in black leather — body wrapped in straps and buckles — raise a long whip and bring it down across the back of a kneeling man.
"You've been very bad," she sneered, lifting the whip and striking the man repeatedly.
"Look at you. No wonder your wife thinks you're a pushover." The whip cracked. "No wonder she hates you— you're too pathetic to keep her satisfied."
'Dominatrix. Professional. Though judging by that grin, he's getting exactly what he paid for.'
He studied the room. Expensive equipment lined the walls — restraints, paddles, devices he couldn't name. This wasn't a bedroom. It was a business.
Francis had enough and moved to the other door. He wasn't the type to judge anyone's preference.
The next unit reeked of smoke.
Two young men were sprawled across a couch, passing a joint back and forth.
"Dude, I can't feel my face," one muttered.
"That's the point, man."
Empty pizza boxes covered the coffee table. Beer cans had been stacked into small towers on the floor, like a monument to commitment.
'Impaired reflexes. Poor judgment. Still — two targets means complications. I'd need to separate them. Manageable. Not ideal.'
The remaining floors disappointed him. Three apartments sat completely empty — bare walls, dusty floors, no sign of life.
Another held a family with a crying infant and a dog that wouldn't stop barking.
A hard no.
By the time he finished, his shortlist was clear:
He slid back through the wall cavities and made his way toward the elderly man's apartment.
'If anyone goes first, it has to be him.'
Old folks dozed in the afternoons. Slow reflexes. Dull hearing. Easy targets.
In addition, from what he'd seen earlier, he guessed the man was already around eighty and had a breathing problem.
At that age, he should have been in elderly care or looked after by a nurse. That meant he got no money for either.
Francis squeezed through a gap behind the bathroom sink and emerged near the medicine cabinet. The mirrored door hung slightly ajar.
Orange prescription bottles crowded the shelves — pill canisters, liquid bottles, a small inhaler wedged in the corner.
'Heart or lung problem. Maybe both. Looks like my guess was right.'
It seemed like a trivial detail. It wasn't. An operative accounted for everything.
Descending from the cabinet, he moved toward the bedroom.
The bed held a single indentation. No trace of anyone else. On the desk sat a framed photo of an elderly woman, ringed with melted candles — she was gone.
The family portrait on the wall wore a thin coat of dust, and a stack of unopened letters sat yellowing beside it.
'Too busy for visits. Or bad relationship.'
'Good. Now there's only one thing left to do.'
The old man was slumped in a recliner, his chin resting on his chest, breathing in slow, whistling pulls.
Another major detail caught his attention—it looked like an oxygen tank, connected to a tube in the old man's nose.
'Is he having an episode?' Francis studied the rhythm, then bit the plastic hose.
The old man suddenly coughed violently, his body jerking as he struggled to breath.
One hand clutched his chest, the other scrabbling at the side table. His face had drained to the color of ash.
"No, no, no—" His fingers closed around a small spray canister. He raised it toward his lips with trembling hands.
Francis launched off the floor. His small body caught the table's edge, bounced, and his jaws snapped shut around the canister — yanking it clean.
"What—" The old man stared, chest heaving. He reached forward, clumsy, uncoordinated. "Please — I need — give it back—"
Francis retreated beneath the coffee table, canister clamped between his teeth.
The old man slid from the recliner and crawled after him across the floor, each breath coming out harsh.
"Please," he wheezed, barely audible now. "Can't — breathe—"
Francis didn't move. His eyes gave nothing away. He simply waited until the rasping stopped and the old man slowly lost consciousness.
Immediate first aid could still save the old man, but the only sentient being in the room besides him was a serial killer rat.