The rain lashed against the grimy windowpane, each drop a staccato accusation. Jack Harlan pressed his back against the peeling wallpaper of his third-floor apartment, eyes fixed on the fire escape beyond the glass. There it was again—the silhouette, motionless under the sodium glow of the alley lamp. Taller than average, hooded jacket dripping wet, staring up. Directly at him. Jack’s breath fogged the glass as he yanked the curtain shut, his pulse thundering in his ears.

It had started three nights ago. He’d stepped out for a smoke, the city’s humid night air thick with exhaust and distant sirens. From his perch, he’d seen it: the struggle in the alley below. A woman, her mouth open in a silent scream, grappled with the figure. Then the glint of steel, a wet choke, slump. The man dragged her into the shadows, pausing to glance up. Right at Jack. No chance he’d been spotted—it was dark, he was high up. But those eyes… they pierced.

He hadn’t called the police. What proof? A shadow play in the rain? They’d call him hysterical, a junkie weaving tales. Jack wasn’t that. Just a data clerk at a faceless firm, twenty-eight, living paycheck to paycheck in this decaying brick pile on Elm Street. Neighbors kept to themselves; the super was a ghost. Perfect for disappearing.

Now, barricaded inside, Jack paced the twelve-by-fifteen living room, floorboards creaking under socked feet. The bedroom door was wedged with a dresser, bathroom chained. Kitchen knife taped to his belt. Phone? Smashed yesterday after the heavy breathing voicemail. Unknown caller. He couldn’t risk it tracing back.

Morning broke gray, fog cloaking the streets like a shroud. Hunger gnawed—fridge held beer and moldy takeout. Delivery apps failed; signal spotty. By noon, dizziness set in. He had to risk it. Unbolting the door, he cracked it to the dim hallway. Empty. Stairs beckoned, echoing his footsteps as he descended, trash bag swinging as cover for canned soup and bread.

Halfway down, it came: footsteps. Slow, deliberate, matching his pace two flights below. Jack froze, then bolted, skipping steps, bursting into the lobby. Mrs. Greeley, ancient widow from 1B, eyed him from her mail slot. ‘Rough night, Harlan?’

‘Yeah,’ he gasped, shoving through the front door into muggy air. Corner bodega, grab essentials, pay cash, sprint back. Door slammed, bolted, chair under knob. Safe. For now.

Night two. Scratching. Faint, like claws on wood. From the door. Jack gripped the knife, ear pressed to peephole. Nothing. Then a whisper, muffled: ‘Jack… I saw you watching.’ Heart seized. How? He fired his .38—relic from his uncle—three shots through the door. Silence. Cops? No sirens. Building too rundown for quick response.

Dawn. A note under the door: ‘Tell no one.’ Clipped to it, a photo—grainy printout of him on the fire escape, cigarette lit, staring down. Timestamp: night of the murder.

Paranoia bloomed. Who snapped that? The killer, marking him. Jack trashed the place searching for cams, found none. His laptop—hacked? He wiped it, but sleep evaded. Hallucinations? Stress? No, this was real. The walls felt closer, air thicker, like the apartment shrank.

Day three. Power flickered, storm brewing. No work, no contact. He rigged tripwires with fishing line and cans from the basement run yesterday. Basement—dark, furnace rumbling like beast breath. He’d glimpsed movement there, ducked away.

Phone scavenged from dumpster downstairs, burner. Googled: no news of body. But five years back, unsolved in same alley. Sister’s friend vanished. Coincidence?

Evening. Knocks. Polite. ‘Maintenance.’ Jack silent. ‘Heard shots. You okay?’ Super’s voice? Gruff, unfamiliar. ‘Police on way.’ Lie. No sirens.

He climbed to fire escape, rain slick. Alley empty. Rooftop access? Locked. Back inside, barricade reinforced. Whispers now from vents: ‘You next.’ Knife ready, he huddled in closet, door cracked.

Hours passed. Footsteps in hall, pausing at his door. Jiggle handle. Chair holds. Then, scraping—vent cover in bathroom. Shadow shifts. Jack lunges, knife slashing air. Misses. Crash—intruder flees?

Power out. Total black. Flashlight app on burner: battery dying. Building groans in wind. Trapped rat.

Midnight. Basement hatch in kitchen closet—super showed once for floods. Desperate, he pries it open, descends into crawlspace. Pipes drip, rats skitter. Claustrophobia grips, walls inches away. Toward furnace room, light faint.

There: lair. Mattress, photos pinned: dozens of Jack. Smoking, working, sleeping. Knife collection. Victim’s purse—ID matches the woman.

Footsteps above. Coming.

Jack grabs photo album. Flips: more pics, but… wait. Each shows two figures. Him… and him? No, identical man. Twin? Brother dead in crash, ten years ago.

Door creaks. Figure descends ladder. Hooded. Knife drawn.

‘Jackie,’ voice familiar, distorted. ‘You always were the weak one.’

Twin. Alive. Killer. Framing him.

Fight. Struggle in dark. Jack stabs, blood sprays. Twin gasps, falls.

Gasping, Jack fumbles light. Face… his own. Mirror? No, body real.

Wait—photos: all labeled ‘Jack Harlan.’ No twin. Laptop there, footage playing silent: security cam from his own apartment. Him dragging woman. Him on fire escape watching himself? Split screen: one cam outside, one inside.

Realization crashes. No twin. Dissociative. The ‘figure’—him, blacked out. Victims: five, all ‘solved’ now in his mind. Amnesia from head injury years ago, after first kill.

Sirens wail distant. Super called cops after shots.

Jack—no, the killer—smiles. Curtain falls as cuffs click in hallucination’s end.