Chapter 4

Jean woke up the next morning and immediately checked the pipes again.

No more leakage.

"Good."

The apartment was still damp, but the floor was no longer flooded. She made a cup of coffee and gulped it down in one go.

Her head was spinning, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

She made herself another coffee.

"That's better."

She went downstairs and took a deep breath when she saw her car. Yes, her car—its top was bent, and glass shards were scattered everywhere. She started cleaning up the mess, but as for the car itself... well, she had no idea how to repair it.

Soon enough, she arrived at the bank.

She entered and glanced around. She started making lists. Lists of lists of lists. And sketches. And then a full-blown interior design. She wanted this place to look amazing.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"Am I really gonna do this?"

She smiled, out of nowhere.

"Fuck it all. Let's do it."

She took her car and less than five minutes later she broke into another shop—this time, a DIY store. The glass shattered, leaving a mess in its wake. Once inside, she started picking up renovation materials: tools, ladders, tapestry, paint buckets, furniture, potted plants, coffee machines, and much more. Everything that would fit her design.

"That's too much to carry in my car. There must be some trucks in the back—"

She searched inside, hoping to find what she was looking for. She found a jacket hanging on a hook and checked the pockets, taking all the keys she could find.

She picked a truck and used a pallet stacker to load everything she needed. Then she drove the truck back to the bank and unloaded the stuff.

Once inside, she took another deep breath and went straight for the vault. She knew the code. She was the only person who had full access to everything in the bank.

She started taking out banknotes. Many, many stacks of banknotes. She threw them all in a big pile in the middle of the main hallway. She spread glue over the wall and stuck the banknotes in place.

Soon enough, the middle section of a wall was covered in paper money. The upper half, she painted beige, a color she hoped would be pleasant to the eye. For the lower half, she used some thin oak panels.

"Phew, that looks amazing," she said. "Now moving on to the next wall."

Suddenly, a portal opened above her.

She recognized this one—unlike the one that brought her food, this one was too playful. And it had the terrible habit of coming close. Too close.

"No," Jean said instantly. "Absolutely not."

The hand dropped down anyway.

It poked her on the shoulder, then on her back.

"Hey—don't—"

Jean gestured to make it go away, but the hand couldn't care less. It reached for her head and started ruffling her hair.

Jean snapped.

She grabbed a broomstick and smacked at the dark fingers with a solid thwack.

The hand recoiled sharply, then darted back in, faster this time. It tried to approach once more, but Jean raised the broom.

"I'll hit harder this time."

The hand seemed to get the message. It floated a few steps back and, for the moment, retreated into one of the margins of the room.

Jean kept an eye on it and continued her work. She started painting the next wall. The work was going well, but she couldn't help but feel the hand was still lurking around, waiting for an opportunity to strike again.

Then it started circling around, trying to get closer.

"Try me!" Jean hissed.

This time, the hand started scratching her back out of nowhere.

Jean jumped.

She grabbed a bucket of paint and threw it at the hand. The paint spread across the entire black surface.

Now it was a beige hand.

But that was a bad idea.

The hand started swinging wildly, trying to remove the bucket and the paint, like a dog shaking off water. Paint splattered everywhere—on Jean, on her clothes, and on the wall she had been working on.

Jean was furious.

She grabbed the broomstick again and slammed it against the bucket still stuck on the hand. The hand wobbled, disoriented. Eventually, the bucket fell, and Jean smacked it one more time, sending it flying across the room.

The hand didn't seem in pain. Merely disappointed. It looked at Jean with what she could only describe as the sad expression of a child who had been denied his favorite toy. Then it slowly retracted back into the portal and disappeared.

"Thank you," she mumbled, and went back to work.

By the time she finished what she had planned for the day, it was sunset.

She turned toward her car. She was covered in paint, exhausted, and wanted to take a shower ASAP.

But she stopped in her tracks, keys dangling in her hand.

And for the first time in many years, it dawned on her.

"Why am I even taking the car? It's five minutes away. I could walk."

It felt like a big realization.

So she walked through downtown, through the pedestrian area. She looked at the buildings around her. It was a place she had never stopped to really examine, but it was beautiful in its own way.

The downtown buildings weren't as tall as her block, but they had charm—old structures, worn but full of character.

She passed shop windows displaying fancy items. She wished she could buy something, but there was no shopkeeper anywhere and all the stores were closed. She didn't feel like breaking into every shop just to get accessories, but she had to admit the thought had tempted her.

And cats were everywhere. So many cats.

"What on earth is going to feed all of you?" she wondered.

Then she reached City Hall.

It was a large building—not tall, but wide. A massive banner hung above one side of the wall.

**VOTE SENATOR CLEMENT FOR RE-ELECTION**

She frowned, and her lips curled in disgust.

"Asshole! I'm so happy he's gone, of all people."

The man on the poster looked charming, but there was a hint of mistrust in his eyes—the kind politicians usually have. Something that signaled how much they care about themselves and less about the community.

She had known plenty of politicians like that during her career.

Senator Clement Orca was no different.

She started to walk away, then stopped.

"Wait a second. I could use that banner."

She went back to the bank and returned with a ladder and scissors. She climbed up to where the banner was attached and began cutting it down. The back of the banner was white—the perfect canvas.

"Perfect," she said, and carefully rolled the banner, making sure not to damage it.

As she reached her block, she noticed a small letter at the entrance of the building.

*To the Penthouse Miss,*

*Thank you for opening the supermarket. I was really hungry. Here, this is for you. I paid for it.*

*Your next-door neighbor*

Below it sat a six-pack of beer.

"No, no, no," she muttered. "You can't thank me for breaking into a supermarket. That's not how I want to be remembered."

She glanced up.

From the balcony, the charming young man waved vigorously. This time, he had his shirt on, but his face was still covered in paint. He wore a big smile.

Jean couldn't help but notice his bright green eyes, the same color as the paint on his body. She could never tell from above. But now, he seemed so close, so real. So human.

"Miss Stalker," he said, "have you started painting too? It's a great hobby, isn't it?"

Jean was speechless. Then she remembered the paint on her face and clothes. She tried to wipe it off with her hands, but it was dry by now.

She wished she could dig a hole and disappear into the ground like a mole.

Flustered, all she could do was cover her face and body with the big banner she had just taken down. And she waved back at him with her other hand as she hesitantly retreated back into her building.