3264 A

It's a number like any other. The little tag underneath the hook you pulled the key from says the room is on the third floor. In Block A, this means it could be one of the mini-apartments with separate rooms and shit. Cool.

Off we go then, back out from behind the receptionist's desk, past old Fat-Arse here, and toward the big, heavy, locked door leading to the actual apartment complex. As you approach it you briefly wonder, since you are from a different block, if your key-card will be able to open it. You put it in front of the detector, which promptly goes "beep", and a ittle light flashes green. All good. You reach for the handle, give it a (mildly) hearty tug, and bump your head against it as it fails to budge.

Damn. what happened. You go through the motions agains, key-card in front of the detector, "beep", green light, grab the handle, a moment's hesitation as you wonder what the consequences of overkill might be, and yank the door with the full **** of your weight being launched away from it.

You end up a heap on the floor, but as you return to your senses you hear the door wailing on its hinges as it sluggishly returns toward a closed position - meaning you managed to pull it open. You jump up to your feet and grab the door before it can connect with the lock, and hold it there.

You feel something at your feet and look down. Sprawled on the floor in the doorway is a girl, along with a shopping bag and and a backpack with a laptop-and-books-shaped bulge. The fall has completely undone whatever stance she was in when standing, so you can't tell exactly for sure what she was doing to the door to immobilise it. Her face however is the only feature still frozen in the moment that you froze time, showing naught but a lax expression of boredom. It's going to be pretty horrible for her when she unfreezes and gets to experience that huge bruise on the side of her forehead.

You decide to drag her body and her things back through the doorway, and let the door close properly. It wouldn't do to have her suddenly appear out of thin air on the floor, and on the wrong side of a thick, solid block of wood, from hers and other unknowing bystanders' point of view. The incident with the kids is bad enough, come to think of it. If they start screeching the same weird tale (because they all saw it), and then any one inquisitive-minded person hears both of that and of any other incidents that you might fail to cover up, you're fucked. Maybe not now, maybe not even within the coming month, but eventually. Constant vigilance from here on.

You get in the lift. Third floor. Walk a few dozen meters into a long corridor of doors and doors and doors, each with a number painted onto them, until you reach the one: 3264 A. Key in the lock. Turn. It works. Open the door. Walk through.

Wow! Shit, dude, is that what it looks like?

You've landed on one of the mid-level dirt-cheap shitholes, of roughly 9m², and for 145 Units of Given Currency per month. Immediately inside and to your right is a small cubicle, containing a sink, toilet, and a shower in the corner, usually with an awful drainage system where the water immediately overflows and sneaks under the door into the rest of the living space. Just beyond the cubicle is a cupboard with space for hanging coats, and a shelf to store basic foodstuffs and cleansing appliances. Beyond that are the bed against the right-hand-side wall, the desk and a few overhead shelves opposite, and a few feet further, the window.

At the desk is a particularly unappealing male human, slouched in his chair, neck craned forward, gaze glued to his computer's screen, one hand below the waistline, wanking.

You almost back out with a mind to try some other door. Maybe snoop around the administrative documents to see if you can get info on the different rooms and their residents. Get some prior warning on some of them. Playing the lottery might bring ages of unsavoury surprises and few rewards. But some sick curiosity holds you back. You want to see what he's wanking to. You want to see if this sick fuck is anything like you, or you like him. Is it true when they say men have no tastes and just get off to whatever has tits and a pussy?

You make your way over to stand over the guy's shoulder, trying not to look down. You half expected the room to stink, but it actually doesn't. And you certainly didn't expect this cheap-skate to be an avid consumer of PREMIUM PORNHUB! Cor blimey man, what commitment!

...

Oh.

It'd be a shame to walk home empty-handed, right? Let's see now, what can we get out of this? You duplicate the pornhub tab, and go into the account section, to then search for profile details. You open a new tab and look around for any signs of an e-mail box. It's all running on Google Chrome, so the mail box is clearly visible up in the top right. You open the first visible inbox in yet another tab, then see if there are any alternate email accounts. Bingo: there's three others. You investigate each in turn until you find two full of porn-related emails. From there it's pretty easy to get hold of full info on the various subscriptions this guy has, and they are many. You look around the room and find a pen and paper, write down all the relevant data, and pocket it. You then delete internet history accordingly. It's at this point you happen to look down and see your victim's nether regions. That's odd. He's limp. Unless you return some other occasion, or unfreeze time a few minutes, it seems you'll never get to see whether he has a bigger knob than you. No great loss. You exit the room once satisfied that all is as undisturbed as possible.

You're hungry. You're very hungry. You haven't eaten all day. Also, you wonder if there might be a bludgeoning effect to restarting time after a long-ish period frozen after all. It's been like, what?, thirty, thrirty-five minutes since you last interrupted the flow of things? Sure, you're currently not in panicky mode, but you don't actually have data on Restarrting Time Level Headed after a long-ish time. Also you don't know what constitutes a long-ish time. Is it a few hours? More than ten minutes? Where do you draw the line?

You hurry to put the stolen keys back in the cupboard behind the reception area, then back to your own block and room. You mentally snap your fingers.

All is well. No pain, no knockout blow from reassertion of the space-time continuum, nothing. You take the time to cook and stuff yourself with nutrients. You get washed, finally noticing that all through the day, while **** and during your most recent porn-stealing antics, you were in pyjamas. Finally you fire up your own computer and see about verifying that all the data you stole does give you access to a bunch of premium shit. It does. Kewl. About midway through basically just browsing the features of all the paying stuff you realize something. At some point the guy is gonna receive an email from Pornhub and co. informing him of a spurious login from an unknown device - yours. What does one do in that situation? Change passwords immediately. You go through your notes to see if you had the sense to steal any email addresses along with the rest. You did. You even got the passwords. You log in to them, and sure enough, there are the emails signalling the connection from unknown devices. You open each, go through the procedure to "confirm' that it is "you" who logged onto the sites, and promptly delete the emails. Hopefully you did all of this while the guy was either busy still jerking off, or had his attention elsewhere.

Anyway, what next?