I stop.

Not because I see it. Because I feel it.

A crosshair. On my back. On my head. On my chest.

Someone is watching. Someone has a rifle. And they're waiting.

I don't turn. I don't look. I just feel.

The factory burns behind me. The people run. But one of them isn't running. One of them is aiming.

"Paranoia," I mutter. "Or instinct."

The explosion wasn't an accident. Someone made it happen. Someone who knew the factory. Someone who's still here. Still watching. Still aiming.

I feel the rope tighten around my neck. Slowly. Invisible. But real.

"What would Don Juan say?" I whisper.

I know exactly what he'd say.

"Don't drift. Think only about yourself. Survive however you can."

I take a breath.

I don't run. I don't hide. I just walk. Slowly. Toward the food. Toward the crowd. Toward somewhere with too many people to shoot.

The crosshair follows.

I don't look back. But I know it's there.

I walk.

The feeling doesn't leave. The crosshair stays.

"When did I start feeling like this?" I mutter. "Maybe that grumpy alter ego rubbed off on me. Ha."

I pause.

"Where is he now?"

No answer.

"Fine. I need to figure out who's following me. And get out of the ring. Because I don't know where the next shot will come from."

I look at the burning factory. At the panic. At the smoke.

"Old man. Where are you?"

I almost laugh.

"Ha-ha-ha. I'm starting to sound like him. Was he even real? Or did I make him up?"

I don't know.

I keep walking.