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Feel free to comment to help me improve and actually finish this draft

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The first night is the most terrifying one of all.

The man slowly sank into the hot bath. Soft steam glided up and condensed on the glass wall, mirroring the raindrops on the other side. The man cautiously scratched his shoulder before wiping the glass and clearing the fog. The skyline was barely visible. A layer of clouds lay motionless just a few hundred metres above. The peaks of the more prominent skyscrapers were hidden. Their lights managed to shimmer through the clouds weakly, forming dingy shapes up in the heavens. A thin mist hung low, grazing the ground, masking the pedestrians. The cars were visible. They zoomed past. Fast. The bathroom felt sterile. Disconnected. Smelled like soap. But it wasn’t disconnected. The sounds still made it through. The sights made it through. Oh god, the sounds. The lights.

A helicopter with its focused beam running along the streets below swooped down from the cloud cover and roared past. The man involuntarily flung his leg inside the tub. Water splashed. The chop of the rotors dimmed, the lights became softer, and the glass fogged up again. The man sank lower into the water, his chest fluttering up and down in quick, sweeping motions. Yet the sounds hadn’t stopped. The sights hadn’t gone. There was the drone of the rotors. The whizz of the beams. The sirens in the streets. The flashing blue and red lights diffracting through the mist. The occasional squeal of tyres. And of course, the other helicopter is sweeping the ground below in the distance. He knew there was another, searching on the other side of the building. There might even be a fourth, a fifth, who knows? The man shut his eyes tight. A beat later, his eyelids smoothed out. He didn’t realise it, but somehow, he was asleep. Yet, the sirens were no lullabies. Not now, not ever.

He awoke an hour later. Water spilt out. He cried out. He whimpered. He silenced himself. Then, a glance out the glass, nothing had changed. Nothing. He looked at the soggy mess that was his body. He gripped the two ends of the tub and pulled himself out. Water cascaded down, meandering through the wrinkles. He got out, raining down on the dry floor. The cold floor. He didn’t look out the glass again. He froze. Everything was still. Perfectly still. The soap lay unmoving. The sink stood proud, the toilet sat silently. He relaxed his muscles, bent down to get a towel and began to dry himself thoroughly. He then found a rough bathrobe and wore it before he went back to the room. He stared at the chairs. The table. Then the bed. White. Soft. Comforting. He crept up to it. He patted it. Then sat on it, and fell back into the pillows. His damp hair wet them. He slowly found a way into the bedsheets. He stepped lower into its warmth. It was cosy. He convinced himself to shut his eyes-

Footsteps.

The man’s hand went for the lampshade. He gripped his knuckles white. He stared at the wooden door. He paid attention to the muffled thuds of boots on carpet. He snuffled silently. His eyes reddened. Louder. And louder. And louder. His grip tightened. Tight, tighter and tighter. The footsteps receded. Soft, softer, softer and then silent. Just the rotors. The sirens. The flash of lights from the window is projected on the wall. The man got out of bed. He made his bed. He looked left and then right. He crawled down on the floor and crept under his bed. It was not warm underneath. It was hot. Fabric brushed his nose and cheeks. Its weight pressed down on his chest, allowing only frail and shallow breathing. The most wanted man on the planet then slept. He hadn’t switched off the lights.

There was a loud thud as his head banged on the wooden bed frame. Cursing. He could barely hear it. The dusty fabric scraped his cheeks roughly and pinned him down on the carpet floor. With his arms lying at his side, with no way to move up, he struggled and left its confines. Once free, he threw his back against the wall and slumped. His chest was moving up and down at an alarming rate. Then it slowed. There was a ringing in his ears. He had hit the bed frame hard. Really hard. His head snapped to his left. He stood up and picked up the landline phone. The ringing stopped. It wasn’t his head then. He thrust his palm across the microphone and pulled the speaker close to his ear. He heard the noise of paper rustling. Then silence. More paper rustling. Then breathing. Soft, gentle breathing.

“Sorry for the delay, sir. You had booked a wake-up call. This is it,” the voice changed in tone, “good morning!” It was awfully cheery, corporate.

“I’m Asha. Is there anything I could do for you today? Perhaps breakfast in bed?”

The man bit his lip and tightened his grip on the microphone. The woman at the other end should not be able to hear a breath. He then waited. There was a beep as Asha put the phone down. She clearly thought the guest had gone to sleep again. Typical.

The man placed the phone back and exhaled. He then trotted from one end of his room to the other and then back again. He chose to enter the bathroom. Avoiding the view outside, he went over to the sink and drenched his face with cold water. He turned, dripping from his eyebrows to his chin. He slipped. He threw a hand around the faucet and another on the toilet seat. He saved himself from the fall. He got up and left the bathroom. He slammed its door in retaliation.

He then trotted up to his bed and sat down, leaning back leisurely and resting his weight on his arms. The white sheets caressed his fingers with their silky touch.