I found myself inside a novel where a murderer lurks outside the door. I know in advance that three days later, a deranged killer will begin a massacre in the apartment. The murderer arrogantly left a note in my room, stating that I am his most desired prey. I look at the shaky, dilapidated door, the rotten wooden windows, the massive wardrobe, and the sewer in the bathroom. Without hesitation, I call a renovation company. “Come on, I’ll turn this room into a bank vault. If the murderer can get in, I’ll admit defeat.”