Paranoiing

Crawling across the floor of the living room of his first floor apartment, he was in abject fear of being caught in the crosshairs of a sniper’s weapon if he raised his head. The window of the room looked out across the street to a tall nondescript modern building, so bright and reflective that he would see himself being shot, a kind of cinema verité, should he show himself.

He figured the sniper could be at any of the upper windows across the street with a view down onto his carpet. But who’d want to kill him? But someone did.