His path wasn’t even vaguely in the direction of his apartment; in fact it was in the opposite direction. But there were quiet pathways where occasional young ladies wandered by, most of them so totally fucking oblivious they wouldn’t have noticed if he threw a rock in their direction. It was a sick addiction with a very specific name: “stalking.” He’d pick a dark spot, stand still as if he were simply drinking in the night and wait. Sooner or later some brainless bitch would walk past, totally defenseless.

Sometimes, just to get a rise out of them, he’d cough. And they’d notice the dark figure in the shadows, their eyes would get wide and they’d hurry past. He never looked at them then, he’d totally ignore them, but he could tell by their hurried steps, quite often clicking away in their high heels, how much he’d frightened them. Sick, but oh so very fun. And he considered it to be instructional for the little idiots. It might teach them to keep some situational awareness.

He also considered it keeping in training. There were plenty of non-idiots among the girls on campus, girls who knew damned well that college campuses had the highest rate of rape in the U.S. And, nine times out of ten, even with the ones who were alert, he could avoid being seen even standing in plain sight. His team name was “Ghost” and it had been hard earned. It was an ability he’d had even before he was on the teams and one that he’d raised to a high pitch in various third world shitholes. He could just… blend.

If he put on local clothes and spent some time watching local moves, he could move among the populace of half the world unnoticed. A little heavy-set, jaw a little square, shoulders a little broad, but nobody seemed to take that into account. Grow a little stubble, cover his haircut and he was anything from an Arab to an Afghan. As long as he didn’t open his mouth: he’d never had language training and his Arab extended to “where’s the bathroom” and “lie on the floor and put your hands on your head.”