That holographic image of him swingin that stick over his head like it was light work. He wondered over and over what he missed when he was unconscious. Did he look like that the whole time and he missed it?

Frustrating, frustrating, frustrating. Jabber knew he should've waited to conk himself out, of course it'd get good right when he wasn't there in his head to enjoy it.

He suspected that guy was strong, resilient; he liked that. But he wasn't interesting enough to keep thinkin about him like THIS.

So what else was there? What did Jabber's highly tuned senses sniff out that made that damned cleaner so unforgettable?

Man- Screw this.

Lessgo figure it out!

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.

He knew it was stupid. A stalker? Right outside HQ? Forget it. Who'd be dumb enough to do that? And why? What for? And more importantly,

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.