It was a cold night. And not just a bit chilly, no, it was actually near the freezing point. The few people still on the streets were shivering in their thin summer clothes as they hurried inside, whether that be a home, a bar or a taxi. Earlier that day it had been 70 °F, and the cold weather had unexpectedly drifted down from the north. It had caught the midnight travellers by surprise, seeing it was not a temperature to be expected in late august. The wind that ran through the city streets carried the smells of fast food and combustion gasses and smoke along. The streetlights cast their yellow lights on the occasional passer-by and the fog that obstructed everyone's view.
Especially that of a man exiting a friend's house, when the tiny specs of water condensated on his glasses. He turned his collar to the cold and humid weather, looked left and right, and began to walk. Normally he would've taken a taxi in such a night, but his own apartment was only four blocks away – why waste his money if he could easily walk. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the street, though the fog dimmed it somewhat. It had been raining earlier in the evening, resulting in a puddle here and then. He might have to dry his shoes once he got home. The black shell cordovans couldn't stand the humidity very well, and the next day he had an important meeting. This was his only neat pair, and thus he was more than careful with them.
He rounded the first corner, and a car swooshed past in the opposite direction. A motorcycle revved up 80 feet away and left off southward. It was an all too familiar scenery, yet just like every self-respecting human being lacking defence skills or the confidence for them, he feared that what lurked in the dark.
In his case it was a homeless cat, staring at him as he rounded a corner. The man attempted to shake off the ominous feeling, and tried to convince himself there was nothing there. He crossed the first perpendicular street. See? he thought to himself, there is nothing to be frightened of. Only three streets left, and then you'll be feeding the fish, cramming the dishwasher with cutlery and dishes.. In his mind he summed up all the little tasks he had yet to do once he got home. More cars passed along with the time. He crossed the second street. And the third. He fought the urge to run the remaining part, and in a steady walking pace he walked across the fourth street.
Suddenly he heard behind him a pair of footsteps - were they holding a gun, ready to accost and shoot him? He'd seen it in the news several times, that someone had been shot for their money. Or the lack of it, he didn't know. No, the man or woman had gone to the other side of the street.
He rounded the last corner, and breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted his dark grey front door amongst rows of other dark grey front doors. But no, his was unique. The tiny scratches around the doorknob, the left upper corner where the original light brown colour was visible where the paint was gone. He knew exactly the size and shape of the cracks in the paint, and the iron 8 next to it was shiny from every time he rubbed it clean, which was once a week. Twice if he could help it.
When he passed number 38 his heart skipped a beat.
A figure emerged from the ochre fog, and it took him a lot of nerves to not stop and turn around immediately. The figure was unmistakably a person. They were walking on the same side of the road. And they were slowly closing the gap between them. At first it was nothing more than a dark shadow, but when the distance grew less he could see it was smaller than him. It was hooded, he noticed.
He passed number 32.
It passed 4.
A lamppost shone its light on it, but the figure remained as hard visible as before. His thoughts immediately sprang to the black-and-white security camera images they always showed on TV when they were searching for the culprit of a robbery or something of that sort. Those figures were always hooded too. The man then mentally shook his head. No, it was unlikely that it was indeed a criminal. The youth nowadays liked to wear - what did they call them, hoodies or something? - all the time. There was nothing outstanding about this person. He'd really become terribly paranoid these last few weeks. Maybe Tom was right, that he did need a holiday. He was trying to distract himself, he knew that all too well, but the thought of a long vacation reassured him nevertheless.
28.
14.
It was walking faster than him.
He couldn't tell whether it was a boy or a girl, all he could see was its eyes.

Its red, cat-like eyes in the dark.

And they were locked onto his. His heart was beating like a propeller so fast. That.. thing wasn't normal at all. And this wasn't his imagination or his paranoia, it was after him. Before he reached 24 he stopped walking, paused for a second, and then turned left to cross the streets in a much faster pace. Don't look back, don't look back. He repeated over and over, like a mantra. Don't look back… The sound of footsteps had stopped. Just before stepping onto the sidewalk he couldn't restrain himself. He had to see.
With one foot already in the air he turned his head.

Then several things happened at the same time.

A fast wind parted the fog. He got swiped off his feet. Strands of hair blew in his face. The street and houses became a blur. It became very dark – an alley. A growling sound reached his ears. He was thrown onto the wet ground. His head collided with the stone pavement. And everything within one beat of his heart.

Little did he know the next beat would never come.