Victor

Victor (he doesn't give his last name) has learned to live in two dimensions. The outer dimension is that of a thirty-four-year-old man who works as a proofreader for a small publishing house, wears thin metal-rimmed glasses, prefers long-sleeved shirts even in summer, and is always painfully polite. The inner dimension is what happens when he is alone, with the curtains drawn and the door locked. Then he takes out albums filled not with texts, but with sketches, photographs, and newspaper clippings—an archive of what he calls “his work.”

He doesn’t look dangerous. That’s the main deception. He’s 178 cm tall, with a thin build and slightly stooped shoulders, like someone who spends too much time at a desk. His hands are thin, with long fingers that never tremble. When he speaks, he sometimes adjusts his glasses, a gesture so innocuous that no one notices the way his eyes scan the room, taking in every detail, every possible escape route or threat.