text: I’m walking to the local supermarket to grab dinner when I hear a scream from a distance to my right. “Eek! Roach!”, it goes. I turn to investigate. Apartment building, second floor, small window slightly ajar, light peeking through the curtains. Dead silence from that point on. I’m curious. Too curious. I try to suppress it, knowing the dark roads that very curiosity has taken me down. But in the end, it wins out. I walk toward the stairs and climb up. Perhaps, if I can save her from that cockroach she’s so afraid of, she’ll reward me for my efforts--if you know what I mean. I know what I mean. I try to push away the unsavory thoughts. Well, unsavory to the rational part of myself, that is. My primal mind finds the notion thrilling. And I suppose he’s the one calling the shots right now. I go up to a door--which could very well be the wrong one--and without knocking, attempt to turn the handle. &#x200B; It’s not locked. The door squeaks open. I peek in. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but it sends chills down my spine all the same. You never know what’s going to happen with these things. Will they call the police on me? Grab a utensil to defend themselves? Cower in the corner, paralyzed? Perhaps it’s the novelty of each situation that keeps me coming back for more. Each and every person’s reaction is like a fingerprint, unique to only them. People reveal who they truly are in extremis. &#x200B; The entrance hall is dark. Still, no sounds coming from deeper in. Is anyone even home? Perhaps the voice really had come from a different room, and someone here just thought they’d do a quick grocery run without locking up. I’d certainly do that if I lived this close to the supermarket. &#x200B; I look for shoes by the entrance; people don’t wear shoes at home in this country. Honestly, I like it: a lot more sanitary--viruses being able to stick to your soles and all that. A single pair of size 22 women’s sneakers. White with pink accents, cheap brand. Someone's home. &#x200B; I close the door as quietly as I can. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. No keyboard-typing or mouse-clicking sounds, so she’s not at the computer. It's a little too quiet, something seems off. I’m starting to get chills. I’m imagining a giant insect eating her in the living room, or her body lying limp and lifeless, perhaps from some sort of heart attack (though that could still prove entertaining for me). I feel alive. &#x200B; The apartment is small and narrow; there's a tiny kitchen nook and a bathroom door on opposing sides of the short corridor. The hallway terminates with a closed sliding door; slivers of light shoot out from the gaps between door and wall. On the other side is likely the only other room in the home. &#x200B; I creep past the mini-kitchen, grabbing a knife just in case I need to be more persuasive. Or perhaps I really do need to fend off a giant man-eating insect, heh. I reach for the door and slide it open. &#x200B; I see a man in a far corner of the empty room. He has a gun pointed directly at me. I hear a voice coming from the other corner--a woman, also pointing an old-school revolver in my direction. &#x200B; “Tokyo PD. Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air, you sick fuck.