Unfortunately, it does in fact become a routine.

Dex and I work the same shift: night. So, every time I leave my apartment for work, he does as well. It's an annoying coincidence, and it gets to the point where I start trying to leave early in order to avoid him. However, I have a busy life, so that's easier said than done. I'm only able to make it early a couple times within the next week, and I end up seeing him way more often than I'd like. Luckily, he doesn't try to talk to me again.

I'm hopeful that this will last indefinitely. That, by some miracle, he has given up on any sort of passive, neighborly relationship with me.

Then, he comes to my work.

I completely freeze, standing next to a familiar dead body-the dead and dissected remains of Richard Valdez-when I spot Dex through the window. He sees me at the exact same time I see him, and unfortunately, his face lights up. He's immediately walking directly to me, and Kristy is doing something on her computer before we begin the autopsy.

"Camilo," he greets, after entering the room. I give him a small, awkward smile. "I didn't know by hospital you meant the morgue."

I shrug, glancing off to the side at Kristy, who is looking between us over her glasses. She has a quirked eyebrow, and I want more than anything for Dex to leave. Nothing new there, but why is he even here in the first place? I've never seen him before, and the only cops who come here are detectives. Specifically Detective Alexandra Jones, who is the lead investigator of my case. Then again, I haven't seen her in a while...

Wait.

"Most people get uncomfortable when I tell them." I notify Dex, which isn't untrue, though it's not the real reason I kept the information a secret. Either way Dex buys it, nodding.

"Well you'll probably be seeing a lot of me." Dex replies, and I take pause. I hear Kristy snort under her breath, and I already know she's going to have a bunch of bullshit to say when he leaves. "Detective Jones retired, they just made me the lead investigator of The Doctor of East Hadena case."

Okay, I have to move.

No, no, that would definitely raise suspicion. Fuck! Why is he acting like we're friends, anyway?

Then again, maybe befriending him could actually help? He'd be a lot less likely to suspect me if we're friends, but that's a slippery slope. Having a more personal relationship with him could mean trouble just as easily. If I were to go the friendship route, I'd have to be so careful. Then again, if I did, there wouldn't be much room for error that way either.

I try not to look supremely stressed out, even though I definitely do, and give him a simple nod. I decide that I wouldn't be opposed to a friendship, but I will not seek it out. "That's... cool."

Dex nods, looking like he's unsure what to do next. I just stand still and stare at the floor until he seems to get the hint. "Well, I'll come back tomorrow for the autopsy report."

I just nod in return, and then he takes his exit. I watch him talk to a few more people before actually leaving the morgue, and I wonder if I could get away with quitting my job instead of moving. It probably wouldn't be worth it, though. Again... too suspicious. Moving out of my house or quitting my job right after a cop moves across from me and I figure out I'll have to see him regularly... yeah, not good.

"I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"Shut up," I tell Kristy with absolutely zero hesitation, trying to remember what I was doing before Decari interrupted. "I met him a week ago."

"Seriously?" Kristy asks, and I frown at her. She looks surprised. Why is that surprising? "Ooh, you'll be seeing so much more of me."

"Yes." I snap, not in the mood for her antics. Why is my face warm?

Kristy hums, looking at me for a couple more moments before seeming tolerable it go. I just frown at her, but we move on easily. The autopsy goes fine, but for some reason I have a difficult time focusing. Actually, I know the reason. It's probably because I just found out the person who lives directly across from me is the lead investigator of my case. Yeah, that's probably it.

Work drags on, and by the time it's over I'm ready to kill something. Literally. Luckily, Willow and I talked about a guy who seems pretty worthy of my services the other day. I've been watching him since then, so I know his routine. Tonight I'll probably take him, but I'm not sure how much time I'll have before daylight. Probably only a couple hours.

"Where is he?" I ask Willow as I drive down the road in the old truck that does not belong to me, though I've grown quite fond of it. I'm currently on my way to the target's house, but I need to know what time he'll likely arrive.

"Looks like he's just turned onto underpass road. I don't know if the city has any cameras over there, but the hardware store on the corner might."

"Whatever works."

The person we're after is named Bill Gordon, and all I know about him is that he abuses his kids. Willow hacked into a nearby elementary school and found incident reports of the kids showing up to school with unexplainable injuries, and Bill has been arrested on more than one occasion for domestic abuse.

I arrive at the mobile home park where he resides a few minutes later, and his wife and kids aren't home. They're staying at his wife's mother's house, so it's completely empty. It's quite easy for me to park down the road and pop open a window, sneaking into his house and lying in wait by his front door.

This is how I take people, and it's never failed. I've never once tried to overpower a person, because unfortunately, I likely wouldn't be able to do so. I'm smaller than most of my victims, and spend most of my time conducting science experiments and performing autopsies. So, there's not much room for the gym.

Injecting people with various things and catching them by surprise are my go-tos. I learn my victims routines and catch them off guard, knocking them out through blunt force trauma most of the time. The tool differs-tonight it's a tire iron-but the result is always the same. I knock them unconscious, and half the time it takes multiple blows to the head to actually get them completely unconscious. Usually in those cases, they die from it.

I don't really care, since killing them isn't the fun part for me. Okay, so it kind of is, but it's not why I do it. I've had a concerning bloodlust since I was a child, usually taking it out on animals. However, the joy of it comes with dissecting. Eventually, animals didn't cut it anymore.

So, the true pleasure of my craft isn't in the kill. It's afterwards, when I get to hold a human brain in my hands or take apart their heart so I can study it. I rarely perform experiments when they're alive, because I'm not interested in making people suffer, even if they deserve it. Although, being able to actually watch the life leave their eyes can be quite satisfying.

As soon as Bill walks through the door, I sneak up behind him and hit him over the head with the tire iron. He drops immediately, and then I begin the process I've done a billion times. Well, to be more accurate, 47. I drag him out to the truck and load him up, and honestly, dragging people around is probably the most difficult part of all this. Still, it's all worth it in the end.

I follow every traffic law to a T on my way to the storage facility, as I always do. Upon arrival to the basement, body bag in tow, Willow looks up.

"I got Bill," I let her know, dragging the bag behind myself all the way to the table in the dead center of the room. Willow looks down at the bag, unfazed, then goes back to lounging on her beanbag chair, laptop on her legs. She begins to type something before answering.

"Just try to keep the noise down. I need to hear this." She says, pointing at her laptop, which is emitting sound. Her headphones are laying beside her, broken, and I make a mental note to buy her a new pair tomorrow.

"Yes, ma'am," I reply, beginning to lift the bag up onto the table. When I unzip it, I find Bill still unconscious, but it's hard to tell if the blow to the head killed him. It probably did, though, since that's what happens just about every time I use the tire iron specifically. When I check for a pulse and feel nothing, I conclude that the blow to the head definitely did the job. Well, that or all the places he probably hit his head while I dragged him all over the place in a body bag.

After making sure he's dead, I walk over to one of the two closets in the room, both of which I keep my supplies in. I pull some plastic over my clothes, as well as some facial protection, and put a tarp on the floor to help with the mess. Then, I start with what I'd been planing on for a while now: drilling his skull.

By the time I finish up-for now-and load his multiple dismembered limbs and organs into my walk-in cooler, it's about six in the morning. Definitely time for me to head back, so I make sure to wrap everything up quickly, putting off disposing the body until tomorrow. Then, I head home.

Usually nobody is out this early, so I find nobody on the streets as I walk to my apartment. I'm expecting for the building I live in to be primarily vacant as well, but there are a couple people standing outside. So, I can't enter my apartment through the fire escape.

That's fine. Not preferable, but not the first time it's happened. Most people just assume I'm coming home from work late or something, unaware I'd already been back here several hours ago. The only person who actually notices these things is the desk lady, so I've learned when to go through the fire escape and when to go through the front, in terms of entering and exiting my apartment building.

She doesn't speak to me when I enter, and I think I've successfully gotten past any unanticipated obstacles, but I'm proven incorrect when I step out of the elevator room and enter my hallway.

A burst of adrenaline goes through me when I find none other than Dex, in his work uniform, standing outside my door. He's staring at it inquisitively, and this is bad. I feel around in my pocket for the small, plastic container, which has a human eye in it. A keepsake from my victim, encased in resin. My 48th human eye charm, which I will put in the container with the rest of them.

The only evidence of my homicidal tendencies that I keep in my apartment: my keepsake box. Everything else I store strictly at the facility.

But, of course, Dex has to be outside my door, waiting for me, when I've brought the latest addition.

When I reach my door, he looks over at me, and I give him a strange look. Confused as to what is so interesting about it, to the point where he's been standing out here, waiting for my return.

Then, I hear it.

Scratching at the floor, right on the other side, and whimpering. Every once in a while the door handle shakes, and if I was about ten years younger, I'd already be planning to kill the dog. However, she's a good alarm system, which is essentially the entire reason I got her in the first place. Also, all my neighbors love her, and I wouldn't want to deal with the emotional fallout of Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Scott losing their resident sweetheart. I'd have to act sad, too, which I've never been good at.

"Sorry," I apologize, before Dex can say anything. I then open my door, and Fluffy comes bounding out into the hallway, jumping on me. She's a big dog, so I stumble a couple steps back, but thankfully don't fall. "She has separation anxiety."

That is not a lie. Much like Willow, Fluffy comes from an abusive home. She is quite loyal and attached to me, though I didn't realize it was to this extent. I've never had someone around to hear her when I'm gone, and therefore report it to me.

Dex's eyes light up when he catches sight of the dog, leaning down as she comes up to him. He is way better with her than I ever was, which is something that must come naturally to most people. He pets her with more confidence, not pulling away in disgust when she starts to lick his face. Both things I've always had a difficult time with.

"She's so sweet," Dex replies. "What's her name?"

"Fluffy."

Dex gives me a strange, humorous look, glancing between myself and my dog. It hits me, then, that Fluffy is probably a really weird name for a Doberman. Possibly the least fluffy dog breed on the planet. However, that's the most basic pet name I could think of, and I've always put effort into maintaining an image of normalcy.

Clearly, I have failed on this front. Nobody has ever said anything before, though...

"Interesting," Dex replies, before standing up to his full height. "So she does this every time you're gone? Because she misses you?"

I shrug. "I guess."

Then, it hits me. I've been meaning to buy more dog food for a week now, but I keep getting sidetracked. I'm now officially out, and Fluffy hasn't been fed all day. That's probably the main reason she's acting like this.

"Shit," I mumble, running a hand through my hair. Am I really going to have to go back out. "She's out of food."

"Don't you have more?"

"No," I reply, before I remember that I actually do. There was a deal one time, so I purchased two bags of food. However, I didn't have room for them both, since my apartment is full of so many knick knacks and very well furnished. The only spot I could fit such a large item was a shelf, a really high one. So high I couldn't reach it, so I had to use essentially all of my strength to throw it up there.

I didn't account for the fact I wouldn't be able to get it back down. So, it's just been sitting up there, for months. Unused and collecting dust, since I'm not tall.

"I mean, I do, but..."

Dex looks down at me in curiosity, and why did I fucking say that? I should've just stuck with the no, but I didn't, so now he'll likely ask me to specify.

"But what?"

Ugh. Why am I suddenly so bad at cutting conversations short?

"...it's on a high shelf."

That's so fucking embarrassing, and I've done a pretty good job at maintaining eye contact with him so far. I have no choice but to break it when those words leave my mouth, and the situation is only made worse at Dex's reply.

"Show me."