He did not arrive at evil in a single step; he descended into it, one horror at a time. Childhood became a training ground for brutality: the beatings, the blood-slick floor after a gunshot, the graveyard nights where he treated broken tombs as altars. Drugs did not create the monster; they only blurred the edges while he carved his own path into darkness, choosing again and again to step further in. When he began slipping through open windows, it was never about money. He was stalking terror itself, savoring the way a city could choke on its own heartbeat.

Yet the story refused to end on his terms. Terror forged an unexpected armor in the people he hunted. Neighbors memorized faces, whispered warnings, watched the streets. When they finally recognized him, they didn’t run—they ran at him. He was dragged down not by legends or holy men, but by furious hands and battered courage. On the pavement, beneath the boots and fists of those who’d had enough, the nightmare shrank. The “Night Stalker” became just a trembling man, wide-eyed and cornered, tasting the same paralytic fear he had sold to millions. In the end, it wasn’t justice’s grandeur that broke him, but the simple, stubborn refusal of ordinary people to stay afraid.