The street was still and lifeless, as if the night itself was holding its breath. A pale moon hung low, its light barely breaking through the heavy cloak of clouds that weighed down on the city.

In the half-shadows of an old lamppost, he stood with a tall frame, his face half-lit by the flickering streetlight. His eyes were sharp, cold, like shards of glass catching moonlight. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, the only sign of his inner turmoil. His fingers were still curled around the knife in his hand, a blade that glistened with something dark and wet. He didn’t tremble; he didn’t look around, only stood there as if frozen in that single, terrible moment.

Not far off, hidden behind a rusting fence, another figure lurked in the shadows. She from the same school, her eyes wide with terror and fascination as she watched him from her hiding place. She clutched her hands to her mouth, stifling a gasp, her fingers trembling as she took in the sight. There was something captivating, chilling, in the way he stood there, his posture devoid of remorse or fear.

The girl had seen his face before, across classrooms, in hallways, just another face in a sea of students. But now, here, under the weight of this dreadful night, he was something else entirely—a stranger forged in darkness. She felt a strange urge to look away, to run, but her gaze remained fixed on him, as if bound by some invisible force.

The next day school. She stood halfway down, leaning into the shadows, holding her breath. He was at the other end, standing by the lockers, his back turned, unaware of her presence—or so she hoped.

She watched him in silence, feeling her pulse quicken as he moved with an eerie calm, slipping something into his bag. A strange stillness lingered around him, a quiet, menacing aura that seemed to shrink the already narrow corridor. He turned and was about to go into the side door of where she was standing when he leaned his arm against the wall and whispered in her ear.

"Don't you ever follow me again."