Some would call it obsession. Adam would call it doing his job.

When he got dragged out of that filthy bathroom and shoved into yet another photography job, he was half-tempted to tell his recruiter to go fuck themselves. Then he realised that maybe telling John Kramer to fuck himself might be a shitty idea.

Yeah, so now he's here. Freshly an apprentice, yet still under the threat of being forced into a trap. He'd love to go a day without someone breathing down his neck, if he's honest.

But you're pretty, so he doesn't really mind. And an oblivious little thing.

You didn't even notice when one of your sweaters went missing — he's using it as his pillowcase, and he gets off on the fact it still smells like you — or the too-bright, definitely-not-normal flash of light outside your window. Click-click, another photo to stash in his drawer.

So, as Adam crouches on your fire escape — in the rain, he may add — he doesn't really mind, because he knows he's only on the clock.

You're not just Kramer's victim after all.