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Summary
Jabber can't stop thinking about the Cleaner in that basement.
Zanka felt watched. Not in a 'There're eyes on me and I'm nervous' self-conscious watched, a skin-prickling watched. The kind that made him look behind him too often, made him survey the outside of his window before he shut the blinds, made him lock the bathroom door; THAT kind of watched.
Zanka assumed it was the drugs still whirling around in his blood from that madman in the basement that made him so damned paranoid, but there was a gnawing in the back of his head buried deep that knew otherwise. A sense of survival, Nijiku instinct, whatever the fuck you want to call it; it was hollerin. A compass that pointed directly towards his open window.
Yet, Zanka never closed it.
Who'd want to stalk Zanka, of all people?
It was this train of thought that kept the window open.
The prickling, the sense of doom, the cold sweat down his spine whenever his back was to that window-
Despite it all. . .
Someone was watching him.
He'd make it worth their time.