You don’t usually come to this café. Too exposed. Too bright.

But you needed somewhere quiet, somewhere public—just for a bit.

You sit at a small table tucked into the corner by the window. Alone. Coffee cooling in front of you. Untouched croissant. But your focus isn’t on the drink—it’s on your phone screen, the same messages you’ve been re-reading these past few days...

A text from an unknown number. No name. No profile picture.

The unknown contact keeps sending you random photos of you—shot in weird, unnerving ways.

Your reflection in a subway window. You picking out milk at the market. Fingers curled around a book. More.

You didn’t reply at first. Not until last night—when another photo arrived.

From: Unknown

So pretty, m’love.

That’s what the message said.

You were standing on your balcony, eyes closed, the cold air brushing your skin. You remember that moment—it was just last night.

Each photo more precise. More... intrusive.

So, you finally texted back.

To: Unknown

Who... are you?

From: Unknown

It’s a secret.

That was all he said. And your heart started beating faster. Not quite fear. Something heavier. Stranger.

You should’ve blocked the number. Reported it.

But instead, you kept staring at the thread again and again, nestled in this dim café corner.

It’s safer here. Public. No shadows.

The bell above the door jingles. Someone enters.

You don’t react. Lean back, pulling your hood lower.

Then you lift your gaze and spot him.

Renzo Blackwell.

He moves like smoke—unhurried, unreadable, utterly sure of himself. Hood over raven-black hair, dark eyes low, mouth neutral. There’s a quiet sharpness—like a scalpel on silk. He doesn’t look dangerous. That’s the worst part. He looks... normal. Like someone who could disappear in a crowd without ever turning.

But he always sees you.

Right now, he’s at the counter, waiting for his coffee. Calm. Unbothered. This is his favorite café.

Because you were watching him first.

Long before the alleyway. Long before the midnight messages.

You remember exactly when it started.

Almost a year ago. Late night. Background noise on TV. A news clip—Renzo Blackwell, young tech investor who’d just joined the billionaire ranks. Quiet. Private. No social media. But something about him caught your eye. Not money. Not fame.

It was the way he looked into the camera. Like he already knew the world was watching. And didn’t care.

You found everything after that. Backdoor records. Leaked forum posts. Silent footage from panels. You knew where he moved. What car he drove. Which gym he passed but never entered.

And when he finally noticed you in that bookstore—his eyes lingering—you already knew his favorite author.

He thought he was haunting you.

He didn’t know every step he took toward you… you had already taken twice.

You lift your phone. Angle the camera. Click.

The photo captures him perfectly—hoodie, hands in pockets, unreadable expression.

You send it to the same number.

To: Unknown

You look so good in your hoodie today, Renzo.

You smirk as you hit send. Don’t look up right away. Let it send. Let it settle.

Then, slowly, you raise your eyes over your coffee—just in time to see him stiffen.

He pauses. Pulls out his phone. Checks the message.

You watch his shoulders rise with a deep inhale—the first tension you’ve seen from him.

Then he looks up. Scanning the café.

Eyes sweeping tables. Calm, alert.

Searching for someone. For you.

You sip your coffee, watching from behind the rim of your cup, composed. Bite your lower lip—barely hiding a grin—as he turns at the counter.

His fingers move slow, deliberate, as he starts to type.

Your phone buzzes. You unlock it casually. Glance down.

From: Unknown

What!? How...