Page 16 of Marked By Him

The keypad at the front gate buzzes as it allows me entry.

I slip through before it snicks shut again.

The lobby inside the building is narrow and tiled, more functional than luxury. The walls are a soft beige lined with cork boards that have flyers for maid services and tutor ads pinned to them.

There’s a row of mailboxes toward the back, and what seems to be a utility room.

I’m taking my time as I press the elevator button and wait for it to arrive.

It’ll be a few minutes until Monroe gets her shower started. Her routine is so formulaic, I can predict it down to the minute. The first thing she does when she gets home from work is take off her shoes—and bra—and then plugs in her iPhone to charge.

Then she wanders into the bathroom, flicking on the light and twisting on the shower. Giving it a minute or two to heat up, she strips down and steps into the tub. Her showers last about ten minutes on days she doesn’t wash her hair. On days she does, it extends to about double that.

Enough time for me to slip inside her apartment, catch her off guard in the shower, and slice her throat open. She won’t have a chance to fight back, even if she wants to.

She should be grateful I’m not going to make her suffer. Others would not be so kind.

I never am.

But as useless as she is, any further effort isn’t worth it. It’ll be a relief not to have to bore myself tracking her anymore—and dealing with the tragic memories she made me think of when she visited the orphanage.

The fact that she brought those memories up in my mind has started to make me not only pity her, but resent her. She unknowingly unlocked a part of myself I keep buried deep inside.

No one alive knows my story and how and why I became what I am.

I like to keep it that way.

The elevator doors part on the ninth floor.

I can still pick up notes of her perfume. The same perfume I had noticed on the night in the alley—along with the scent of fear rising from her brown skin.

It’s sweet and light and reminds me of spring.

Perfect for a woman like her.

Once I’m sure she’s probably in the bathroom, I step to her apartment door and stare down at the keypad that unlocks it.

The numbers glow a bright green beneath my fingers. I enter the code I memorized when I followed her home the first evening.

1-8-4-7

Beep.

The characters on the screen switch from green to a severe neon red.

DECLINED

I narrow my eyes and try again.

DECLINED

My fingers twitch. I go slower the third time, pressing the numbers one, eight, four, and seven with slight pauses in between.

DECLINED

The keypad flashes more red lights up at me, beeping for each incorrect guess. The noise is going off so frequently, I begin to question if Monroe will hear it from inside her apartment.

“Yah!” calls a female voice behind me. I hear the scratch of her slippers as she approaches and proceeds to yell at me in Hangugeo. “What do you think you’re doing?”

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