"Get out of the way."

Fluffy does not move. She just stares up at me, stationary in her sitting position between myself and my front door. She looks up at me with her big green eyes, ears perked up at attention. She is a very active participant in this argument, one we have just about every day, without even having the ability to speak.

"Please," I continue, and the word falls on deaf ears. "I have to go to work."

I'm half expecting the dog to actually talk to me at this point, but she doesn't. Nope, we just stay in the stand off until I pick an item off a nearby shelf-which happens to be a plastic dinosaur-and throw it across the apartment.

She is immediately chasing it, sprinting across the room, and I take her distraction as my opportunity to escape into the corridor. Unfortunately, I almost run into Mrs. Henderson in my rush, startling the woman half to death. She nearly drops one of the two paper bags of groceries in her arms, but thankfully I'm able to catch it.

"Jesus," She exclaims, pressing her now free hand against her heart. She begins walking down the hallway again, and I have no choice but to follow with her bag. It's fine, I wanted to be late to work anyway. That's always so much fun for myself and my coworkers. An absolute blast.

"Sorry," I apologize, walking alongside her. "I was in a hurry."

"Well thank you for helping."

The next minute or so is spent in silence, until the two of us finally reach the older woman's door, all the way down the hallway. That's one reason I love the location of my place, there is absolutely nobody who lives near me. The only occupied apartments are at the other ends of the hall, so I have much more freedom in terms of volume. There are some other perks as well, but that's a big one.

I hand the bag to the lady after she gets the door open, but before I can make my escape for the second time within the last five minutes, she is speaking. It's rude to walk away when people are talking to you, so I am forced to stick around. This sucks, because I hate talking to people.

"Wait. Did you hear you're getting a new neighbor?" She asks, a smile on her face that does not appear good natured. I squint at her in suspicion, because I find her phrasing curious. We live on the same floor, technically we live a good distance away, but we're still classified as neighbors. So is Mr. Scott, down the hall. If someone else is joining us, they'd be a neighbor to all of us.

"No," I reply, trying not to frown. She seems amused at my reaction, anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Across the hall from you," she specifies, and I freeze. What? Someone's moving into the apartment right in front of mine? "I think it's exciting."

"Uh, yeah," I am unable to feign happiness, unfortunately, and she gives me a questioning look. I decide to leave before she asks me what my discomfort is about, because this lady has always been far too observant. It's good she lives down the hall, or I'd have to come up with far more bulletproof lies about some of the activities I get up to.

Depending on who this new person is, however, I might've preferred if it was her instead.

I excuse myself pretty quickly after the conversation falls flat, and she gives me a strange look, but I don't have the mentality to ease it right now. I exit the building with my eyebrows furrowed, on autopilot as I walk to the nearest subway station and pay my way through, a train already waiting. Right after I enter the doors shut, and I need to pay more attention to my punctuality in the future.

The entire train ride, I'm lost in thought at who could possibly be moving in. I find myself really hoping it's somebody who will mind their business. It's not like I couldn't handle a nosy neighbor, it would just complicate things, and I have no desire for my life to get more complicated than it already is.

I'm deep in thought the entire ride, planning for every scenario the whole trip to work, and when I finally arrive at the hospital I have an unintentionally sour look on my face. I really need to stop making faces in accordance with my emotions and thoughts, because I hardly ever notice when I make faces. It's been a lot of work to make people think I'm normal, so I can't afford even the smallest slip ups. I can't afford even the slightest hint of suspicion.

Upon arrival to the hospital that is my employer, I enter the building, the security guard nodding at me as I enter, and I walk directly to the elevator. I immediately press the button for the basement, nobody getting on with me, and then I'm descending to the morgue.

I try to keep my mind off the neighbor situation, since I would like to stop looking like I'm having the worst day of my life. I'm lucky nobody has asked me any questions yet, but if I continue making that face then there's no doubt I'll be interrogated by my coworkers.

It ends up not mattering either way, though, when I enter and find that everybody is busy.

"Camilo! Get over here!"

I turn to find Kristy, our forensic pathologist, standing in the other room. With her is a dead body, laid out on a table, and she has another smaller metal table of medical tools beside her. I know what she's going to ask me for as soon as I enter the room and pretend not to recognize the body.

"The Doctor is at it again?" I ask her as I start getting ready to help her with the autopsy, which she doesn't even need to ask me to do. After putting on my lab coat and gloves, as well as a few other minor precautionary things, I join her across the table.

"Looks like it," she replies, and we're referring to The Doctor of East Hadena. He's a serial killer that's been active for a few years, and has yet to be caught. They call him the doctor because the majority of his victims appear to have been clinically dissected and otherwise operated on. The bodies typically tend to show up in bodies of water, so the number of victims he's actually had is unknown. The number that the police believe, and that has been made public-essentially, the bodies that have been found-just hit two dozen.

Twenty five, with this one.

The victim is a man in his late thirties named Rodney Moore, recently involved in a drunk driving incident that killed a family of five. It was a hit and run, the cops having never caught him.

"His arm is missing," Kristy notifies me, beginning to cut the guy open. "Looks like the cause of death was blunt force trauma, and I'll bet he's missing some organs."

The autopsy proves her right, though I already knew that. After we finish with that, she contacts the coroner to let them know what we found. I get started on some paperwork, and that's essentially my day at work.

I work night shift, and usually get off work at about three in the morning. Today goes a little later than usual, so I end up leaving at four. That's fine by me, though. I don't really care what time I leave, as long as it's dark outside. I prefer the cover of night when it comes to my hobbies, though it doesn't actually matter that much. I live in a rainy area, so half the time it's dark during daylight hours as well.

When I reach the fourth floor of my apartment complex, where my house resides, I find boxes in the hallway outside the apartment across from my own. I try not to make a face, and mostly succeed, before moving on. I have more pressing matters at hand right now. Okay, not really, I just have better ways to spend my time than constantly stressing about my new neighbor.

I stop by my house and feed Fluffy, before changing my clothes. I eat a quick meal before making my way towards the front door, expecting for Fluffy to be asleep, since that's what usually happens after she eats dinner. Unfortunately, before I can exit, Fluffy intercepts me for the second time.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair and giving the dog a look.

"Get out of the way."

-

It's on the fourth ring that Willow finally answers my call, and by this point I've already reached the abandoned storage facility that isn't so abandoned anymore. At least, not as of a few years ago. The facility itself has a basement, which is my main center of operation.

"What's up?"

"They found Rodney," I notify the teenaged girl, who I've always kept away from my extracurricular activities. Her and I talk more on the phone than we ever have in person. She lives at this storage facility, which is a really long story that boils down to her murdering her abusive parents and me taking her in. Technically, the police are still looking for her, but at this point they've basically ceased all efforts. Last I heard, they're convinced she left the country or got kidnapped by her parents killer, if she didn't do it.

It's doesn't matter, though, since she is weird as hell and enjoys living in an area full of jars with various body parts and organs in them. She also doesn't care about the fact that I tend to commit murder, she just understandably doesn't want to be a part of it. Things such as tend to remind her of past traumas.

She's fantastic with computers, though. She can hack just about anything, and she's how I get my information. She's how I choose my victims.

I pull out my key-the only one in existence, I made sure of that-to the facility, unlocking the door to the basement, before inputting the passcode as well. I then enter, finding a familiar room that has seen many horrors, and a familiar girl lounging in the corner amongst beanbags.

"Probably smelled like shit, he was in the water for a week." Is Willow's greeting upon my entrance, and I hang up the call now that it's pointless.

"He did," I reply, walking over to my workbench and setting my bag down out of the way. I put on my gloves, before searching around for my cooler. It's where I put my favorites of Rodney's organs, but I've been too busy as of late to properly deal with them.

If asked why I enjoy dissecting people and separating them into different containers, which I usually either put in storage or on display, I wouldn't have an answer. All I know is that I've had a sick infatuation with these things since I was a kid. There wasn't a single science class I didn't pass growing up, though my victims used to be animals.

"Probably liked it. Weirdo."

"I did."

Willow rolls her eyes, fully aware how much I enjoy the scent of death, then goes back to doing something on her phone. I start organizing the leftover pieces of Rodney, and about ten minutes in, Willow speaks once again.

"Did they find anything?"

This is her way of asking if I left evidence, which I never do. Every cleansing is handled the exact same, not a trace, which is something that working in a morgue has helped me exceptionally with. Still, Willow worries, though she tries to hide it.

"What do you think?"

"Of course they didn't," she answers easily. It's only as I begin cutting open his heart, while reminding myself to pick up more dogfood on my way home, that she finishes her statement.

"You're The Doctor, after all."