They think the smell is rot.
They wrinkle their noses, quicken their steps, pull sleeves over faces as they pass the grates. They think it’s decay, something dead and forgotten.
It isn’t.
It’s me.
I’ve learned the rhythm of them—the ones above. The way their footsteps travel through the pipes before their voices ever reach me. Sound arrives first. It always does. A tremor, a pattern, a signature hum.
Heavy steps mean impatience. Sharp ones mean fear, or urgency. The slow drags—those are the tired ones. The ones who look down too much. The ones who don’t notice the world narrowing around them.
Those are the easiest.
Water laps softly against the concrete as I shift, careful not to disturb the surface too much. The dark here is thick, almost physical. It presses against my eyes, but I don’t need sight the way they do. I feel everything.
Every drop. Every vibration. Every heartbeat that passes overhead.
And there’s one right now.
It’s light, uneven. Pausing every few seconds.
A distraction, I think, or hesitation.
I move closer to the ladder beneath the grate, slow enough that the water only whispers. The metal above me hums faintly with the echo of their presence.
I wait for the right moment.
This is the longest part. Hunger is constant, but patience sharpens it. Turns it from noise into focus.
A shadow crosses the thin cracks of light above. I can see it now—not clearly, not like they would, but enough. A shifting outline. A pulse of warmth.
They stop. Just like they all do.
I smile. Draw in a deep breath.
And draw my victim deeper and deeper, into the endless dark…
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