[Author Notes - Hi. Thank you for reading. I'd really appreciate any feedback, whether it's good or bad. Have a great day.]
Cold is the best ally of an observer.
When the temperature drops, the city seems to shed its masks: unnecessary sounds fade away, people become more aware of their own breathing, yet—paradoxically—go blind to everything else.
That's exactly why I left my apartment in the evening.
The snow under my boots crunched softly and thickly, as if every grain of ice resisted the pressure of my weight. Winter Chicago wasn't beautiful. It was honest. The wind here didn't pretend to be kind—it stripped everything down to the truth. Blurred shadows under streetlamps, the rare passing cars, steam rising from sewer grates, the smell of burnt gasoline and metal.
"People show their true nature not during the day," I thought, pulling up the collar of my jacket. "During the day, they're too busy playing roles. But at night… at night, only instincts remain."
Tonight, I was watching Michael Rogers.
I had already studied his route: a bar near River North, the alley by the Red Lantern, the side parking lot near the freight terminal. The same path every evening. A man may change his excuses, his job, his women, but never his habits.
I walked at a distance. Not hiding, but not getting too close.
Michael walked like the city belonged to him: wide, confident stride, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He smoked aggressively, clicking the filter with his teeth. Every few steps, he looked back—not to check for someone following him, but to express suspicion toward the world itself.
The first thing he did near the bar was shove some guy with his shoulder. The man wanted to protest, but changed his mind. Michael was massive, broad-shouldered. People of that size weren't always smarter than everyone else, but they received pushback far less often. That forms the illusion of permissiveness.
A couple of minutes later, he stepped outside with a girl. She laughed—fake, forced. Her face was tense. Did she want to leave? Yes. Did she try? Yes.
But Michael grabbed her hand.
Harshly. Firmly. Painfully.
I stopped in the shadow of a doorway. Watching. Analyzing.
"Hey, I just asked—" the girl tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip.
"You're coming with me," his voice was low, offended-aggressive. "Relax."
A bulky, dark figure of a security guard appeared by the door.
"Hey! Let her go."
Michael turned, lunged forward threateningly… but didn't dare. He released her hand and backed against the wall. Yet he hissed into the girl's face:
"We're not finished."
She flinched. Left quickly.
This was the first test.
Unofficial.
But very telling.
A man who causes pain reflexively, without thinking—
is dangerous.
A man who retreats only in the face of greater force—
is a coward.
"The system gave him too many chances," I thought, watching him spit into the snow. "I will give him only one."
Michael put out his cigarette on the wall, headed toward the parking lot, and got into his truck. Left brake light. Right. Engine on.
I memorized his route the way you memorize the breathing rhythm of a patient before surgery. Precisely. A heart is just another mechanism—just biological.
He drove toward his workplace; he had to return the truck.
I turned around and went home.
The night was long.
My apartment door closed quietly, as if it understood—noise was unnecessary.
I took off my jacket and switched on the desk lamp. Its yellowish light cut through the darkness, creating a clear line between shadow and illumination—like the one running through every person inside.
Michael's file lay on the table.
I opened it.
Spread out the documents.
Opened my notes.
He is impulsive. Aggressive. Believes strength is a tool.
Harry would say:
"Don't rush—observe."
"Behavior is an equation. Every aggression has a trigger. Every act of violence has logic. To build a test, you must understand the man before you destroy his certainty."
I ran my fingers across the page.
The photograph showed a man with empty eyes.
A typical predator without the instinct to hunt—but with a thirst to dominate.
"You're not just dangerous," I said quietly. "You're proof of a systemic flaw."
I began writing:
"Objective: test self-control"
"Trigger: fear of losing control"
"Reaction: aggression or panic"
A person reveals their core when stripped of the tools they rely on to dominate.
The test had to show Michael one simple truth:
Every choice has a price. And the time to pay—has come.
John left the apartment closer to midnight. By that time, the city exhaled. Snow fell quietly, without wind. Almost no cars.
He walked confidently—not rushing, but wasting no movement. He carried a sports bag, though nothing inside it was truly "sporty."
The first location was an old auto shop on the outskirts. Metal walls, shattered windows, tire marks, a smell of oil. But there was still security there.
John passed by without stopping.
The second location was a semi-closed parking lot near the highway. But too many cameras, too much light. Too many stray people at night.
Rejected.
The third place was a huge warehouse complex near the docks. The first three buildings were guarded. But the fourth… had been abandoned for a long time. The approach was partly covered in snow, the windows broken, and inside—metal beams, a high ceiling, and minimal signs of human activity.
John stopped, examining the entrance.
The cold air burned his face, but he didn't notice.
He ran his fingers across the metal frame of the loading ramp.
Rust.
Insulation.
A half-broken door that could easily be refitted with a disposable lock.
Inside—open space, quiet echo, beams perfect for mounting.
He stepped inside.
Snow crunched.
The emptiness of the warehouse greeted him with a hollow echo.
Yes. This place would work.
No one comes here at night.
He could work here.
And no one would hear the screams.
John returned a couple of hours later—with tools.
The bag was full: metal parts, cables, clamps, fasteners, power tools that would look perfectly ordinary for an engineering student.
He started with the frame.
The first metal pieces fell onto the floor with a clang.
John didn't rush.
His movements were precise, methodical.
He approached the trap like a robotics project.
Every element—a function.
Every cable—a safety line.
Every detail—a part of the logic.
His inner monologue was quiet, rational:
"The test must operate on the principle: action → consequence. Choice → outcome."
He secured one of the steel cables. Pulled—testing.
The metal stretched with a ringing tension.
But suddenly the cable slipped from its mount. A spark.
A dull metallic thud.
John didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
He simply bent down, checked the mount, then took a different type of clamp from his bag—reinforced, with an anti-vibration washer.
"Design flaw, not operator error," he noted. "Need to reinforce the beams at two points."
He took his notebook and quietly wrote:
"Reinforce mount. Add safety cable. Shift pressure point by 4 cm."
The warehouse was freezing, but John didn't feel it.
He worked for hours, assembling the base.
Then he made sketches on paper, checking angles, fixation points, movement possibilities.
By the time he finished, it was nearly morning.
He looked at the basic frame of the upcoming test.
This wasn't a trap.
It was a mechanism of choice.
And it was almost ready.
Back home, John opened the file again.
Michael Rogers.
34 years old.
Truck driver.
Fights. Assaults.
A suspected disappearance of a teenager.
Photo. An unpleasant squint.
"You're used to breaking," John said softly. "Now you'll see that what breaks doesn't have to be outside of you. It can be inside."
John looked at his earlier notes:
"Objective: test self-control"
"Trigger: fear of losing control"
"Reaction: aggression or panic"
He added:
"Test: choosing between pain and admitting the truth"
"Behavioral trajectory: expected aggression → transformation into panic → attempt to bargain for freedom"
John didn't write to prepare.
He wrote for precision.
In engineering, everything matters—even what seems irrelevant.
In psychology—even more so.
He put down the pencil, closed the file, inhaled.
The test was almost ready.
Only one step remained—the capture.
The lamp hummed faintly.
I ran my hand across the warm cover of the folder.
Closed it.
A click.
Soft, but final.
It was the sound of a decision.
I turned off the lamp—the room sank into a cold gray half-darkness.
"Tonight, I observed," I thought.
Outside, snow kept falling.
The city awakened again, becoming white like a blank sheet.
"Tomorrow. I begin building."
I looked at the closed folder.
The name "Michael Rogers" was written neatly, evenly.
"Soon, you will make a choice.
You will make it yourself.
"I will only build the mechanism that reveals the truth."
I stood up and walked to the window.
Snow was falling evenly, softly, as if it didn't want to disturb the world.
"Either you pass the trial…
…or you become a reminder."
I ran my finger across the cold glass.
"There is always a choice."