Improvised play PART 4

Maor woke up suddenly. Not frightened, not sweating—just awake, like someone who hadn’t truly slept. He rose from the bed, took a deep breath, and began descending the stairs quietly, one step at a time, as if each movement might awaken something dormant in the house. His three-story apartment in the heart of Tel Aviv was supposed to be a safe haven. In fact, it was exactly that—at least on paper. Three well-ordered floors: an entrance level with a bright living room, a functional kitchen, and a guest toilet. The second floor held his bedroom, a guest room turned storage filled with old clothes, shoes, and buried memories, along with a spacious bathroom. And the third floor—a rooftop level, with open air, one more room, and a small bathroom that always felt slightly out of place.

Maor knew he was supposed to feel safe. After everything he’d been through—the surveillance, the investigations, the shadows shifting at night—he was now under 24-hour protection. He should have felt secure. But inside, deep down, something still whispered. Not fear exactly, not a sense of danger—just a constant tickle at the back of his mind, like a door that was shut too tightly and needed to be checked again.

He tried to calm himself. Time had passed. There was no killer. Everything made sense now. And yet, the thoughts kept racing. Especially now, when things were supposed to settle, they rose again. Horrific details he’d once heard on the news—quiet crimes, nearly forgotten—now suddenly felt relevant. One in particular stood out: a murder at a kindergarten. Just one or two kids, he couldn’t quite remember. Only that it was awful.

And now, somehow, it all felt too similar.

Israel, he thought, was a country that didn’t look back anymore. There was always another war, another scandal. The horrors blurred together, forgotten. Who even remembered those kids? Maybe only their families—people whose lives had frozen in time. Unlike his. Maor had moved on. His life was better now than ever before. And he hated admitting that.

But on quiet nights like this one, when everything was too still, he couldn’t help but wonder: how did it happen? How could something like that occur in a country he once believed was civilized?

And the worst part? The answer never came. Only the silence, gently disturbed by hesitant footsteps on wooden stairs.

We’re a country of law, Maor thought to himself. We’ve moved past the days when things like this happened. This isn’t some stupid horror movie—we’re actually living here. Sure, crimes happened, a lot of them. But not this kind. Not the kind where a monster like that roams free.

He wasn’t a killer from a film. He was real—flesh and blood. And that, more than anything, was what made it so disturbing. That’s what made it terrifying: the fact that something so horrific could happen now, in this day and age. Something like that shouldn’t happen. It couldn’t be allowed to happen.

But Maor knew the hunt was on. The manhunt for the Tormentor had become the top story in every news outlet. There was no doubt: the Tormentor was now in the spotlight, more infamous than ever. More famous, even, than Maor himself.

And that was bitterly ironic—Maor had always hated celebrities.

The Tormentor thought all famous people were garbage. But Maor knew that wasn’t quite true. Sure, celebrities—including himself—had become spoiled, self-important. The more famous they got, the worse it became. But most of them, underneath it all, still had souls. And that’s what mattered.

Maor hoped they’d catch the Tormentor soon. He really did. But right now, he needed to rest. After everything that had happened, he deserved a break—a moment away from the chaos, away from the noise. He lay down in bed and closed his eyes.

Finally, he was safe.

Tomorrow, most likely, the police would summon him again—to testify, to explain one more thing, recall one more detail. The investigation was exhausting. But Maor knew it was all helping. It could only help. He pulled the blanket over himself and allowed sleep to take him. and for the first time in a long while, Maor dreamed good dreams.

Three weeks later, the police found his body—in a horrific state—dead inside the elevator of his building. All that was left of him were a few personal items and scraps of notes he had written. On the walls of his apartment, scrawled in blood, was a single word:

“The Tormentor.”

"Here it is, folks," said Major Shaqed as he stepped into the apartment of Maor David. Since the incident with the Tormentor, he had been promoted. He had insisted, almost aggressively, on being in charge of Maor David’s case, and on leading the renewed manhunt for the killer. There had been a growing sense that they were finally getting close to catching the bastard—and then came something more horrifying than any of them had expected.

Shaqed had uncovered at least ten additional murder and crime reports from recent years, all of which appeared to be connected to the Tormentor—either committed by him directly or somehow tied to him. And he was sure there were more, many more, that the police still had no clue about.

He didn’t know just how right he was. all he wanted was to get his hands on that piece of scum—the one who had murdered Ron and Yair, his two best friends. He intended to put an end to this.about two hours ago, they had received the call: Maor David was dead. and now they stood here, in what remained of his home, looking for any clue, any fragment of evidence that could tell them what had happened—or what Maor might have known.

The police had never gotten a chance to question him again, and that was a shame. Maor had been the only one, other than the Tormentor himself, who had experienced direct physical contact with him. He had even spoken to him. They had summoned him for another interview, but he never showed up. He simply disappeared.

As it turns out, he had been shut inside his apartment the entire time—trapped. and the thing that kept him there… was the Tormentor. it was so painfully clear now. His name was written across the walls—everywhere. Written in blood.

Maor must have been in an utterly horrific state, desperately trying to escape. It’s likely that if Maor had been at his best, he might have made it. Maybe even succeeded.

But he wasn’t. Not really.

Shaked could feel it. Something about the whole situation felt… off, as if the events hadn’t unfolded naturally but had been meticulously planned. the Interrogator… yes, this had his twisted fingerprints all over it. Manipulations stitched together like a grotesque play.

Maor lay there, his body scarred and torn with cuts—different sizes, different angles—marks not left by an enemy, but by himself. His mental state had been crumbling long before the Interrogator hit him—just one blow to the head, not even that hard. But enough. Enough to tip the already fragile balance.

Maor would have collapsed anyway, probably within a few days. He was starving—Not just hungry, but self-starved. A brutal diet, the kind actors obsess over to stay lean, stay “hot.” But he had nothing left. No pride, no sanity, no strength.

The Interrogator didn’t kill him outright. He finished him—slowly, methodically. He broke him... and let him rot from the inside out. They searched what remained—Shaked and his team. Through rooms, drawers, cracked walls.

His clothes were still there. Personal items—some expensive, most not. Maor had been rich, Shaked thought. For a moment, he almost envied him—the life, the fame, the easy smile.

But then he remembered. “Better to live in filth and die with dignity,” he muttered to himself. With Maor… it had ended quite the opposite.

Torn pages from books, half-chewed decorations—Maor had eaten things no one should eat.

Disgusting? Yes.

Tragic? Even more so.

But it was the truth. Reality doesn’t ask permission. Then they found it—the one thing that still mattered.

A document. Or rather, several pages Maor had written before he died.

A final monologue.

A confession.

Shaked picked up the first page. It was damp, wrinkled, partially torn—

But still readable.

“If you're reading this, I’m probably dead. And if I’m not—well, it doesn’t matter. He showed up a few days ago. I was standing on the balcony, and I saw him. Just like that. Standing there, staring at me. He had a hood on, but his eyes—they pierced right through his sunglasses.

I haven’t slept since. And when I did, the nightmares made sure I didn’t rest. That’s what truly got to me—not the gun, not the beatings. The look in his eyes. He didn’t have a weapon. Not then. But I knew it didn’t matter.

Then he pulled it out.

I ran.

The intercom rang. I answered.

‘Hello, Maori,’ he said. His voice was too calm.

‘The police aren’t going to catch me anytime soon, if that’s what you thought. I’ve got a very good hiding spot. Don’t leave your home. Just… don’t. Because even though they say a man’s home is his castle— For you, Maor, it’s different. You’d better take care of yourself. Very, very well.’”

Shaked closed his eyes for a moment. He knew—this wasn’t just another victim. It was a test. And the Interrogator? He wasn’t finished playing.

The following page was written a few days after the last, judging by the worsening condition of Maor’s handwriting. It was more than a message—it read like a will. A farewell.

Shaked told himself he'd honor it. He had to. The third page was written in Maor’s final days. The ink was faint, the lines shaky. The words barely held together. It was clear: he was dying. And yet, Shaked read every letter, trying to piece together what happened in the end.

*"This is my end.Never in my life did I imagine it would come like this. It's not even a realistic scenario. I'm going to die—and honestly, I think that's for the best. I have no food. I'm withering away. Another day or two like this, and it'll be over.

I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't live.I'm so tired of this He just watches me Constantly. And only now do I fully understand how fitting his name is The Interrogator.

Because he's torturing me.

I don’t have the strength to write much more. I don’t have the strength for anything. Maybe soon I’ll try to escape again. I don’t have any other hope left. About a week ago, I tried to run.

I made it all the way to the front door of the building.

I thought I was free. No resistance Maybe he got tired. Maybe he didn’t notice.

But just as I reached for the handle— He appeared. Turns out he’d been standing just off to the side the entire time.

Waiting. He stepped in front of me.

He stared right into my eyes. Said nothing

I wanted to cry. It was unbearable. So I went back upstairs Back into my apartment. In shame. There was nothing else I could do. He meant it when he said he’d be ‘watching over me.’

I think… I think he’s nearing the end too. But he’s not human. Somehow, he’s still as strong as the day he arrived. You can see it. I have nothing left to do.

And maybe… maybe that’s for the best.

I think—"*

The writing trailed off there. The rest of the page was smudged, water-damaged, unreadable. Shaked set the page down. It seemed clear—Maor had tried to escape through the elevator in the end. And he had failed Shaked gave a series of cold, practiced orders: the police were to collect the body, seal off the apartment, and clear the scene.

But even as he left, his thoughts churned: Where was the Interrogator now? Where was the monster hiding? He intended to find out.

That very day, the police issued a state of high alert. The hunt for the Interrogator intensified. More officers were assigned. More eyes on the case. They had to catch him—before more lives were lost.

That night, Shaked sat alone in his room, staring at his laptop. He sifted through every shred of data, trying to thread the clues together. Finding the Interrogator’s hideout was nearly impossible—Nearly.

Because once, a father had found it. He got up to pour himself a glass of water. His thoughts needed calming. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. The exhaustion was becoming unbearable. Not just because he was tired Because of this mystery, coiling ever tighter around his mind.

He lay down for a short rest.

When he returned to his desk a few minutes later, something had shifted. He felt sharper. He replayed a key detail in his mind: The Interrogator had managed to reach Maor David’s apartment without being recognized. And not only that—he was armed, wearing his usual attire.

How was that even possible?

And then it struck him.

Finally.

Maybe people hadn’t recognized the Interrogator— But they had seen him. Maybe they’d even seen where he went. And what about the people who sold him equipment? They must have spoken to him.

He started mapping out a plan— He’d call each of them in for questioning. He’d find the bastard.

He’d be a hero. Everyone wants to be a hero. But Shaked—he needed it. Overcome with a mix of excitement and clarity, he rushed to his room like a child eager to show a drawing to his parents.He swung the door open— And stopped.

The Interrogator was already there.

He stood across from Shaked—expressionless. Calm. A gun in his hand.

"I heard you were looking for me, Mr. Shaked,” he said, voice soft and unsettling. Well... here I am. All yours. Let's see if you can catch me—if I give you a hint.

My hideout is in the desert... but also in the heart of the city. I'm everywhere. And it's not always me. In short—it’s really hard to catch me. But you’re welcome to try.”

Without another word, he raised the gun and shot Shaked in the head Shaked collapsed to the floor. The Interrogator escaped through the window, vanishing the same way he came.

In the two weeks that followed, the Interrogator’s case still haunted the country— But then, a war broke out. And just like that, the nation turned its gaze elsewhere.

Without Shaked to lead the hunt, the case faded from headlines. It was no longer top priority. Certainly, some still searched for the Interrogator.

But their voices were few. Their reach limited.

And as for the Interrogator? He disappeared again.

He kept doing what he always did.

Without fear. Without pause.

But those...

Those are stories for another time.