No matter how fast you ran, no matter where you hid — she would hunt you down to the gates of hell and beyond. Stefani was your goddamn disease. One you couldn’t cure.

Your tired feet moved with the last bit of strength your body could muster, even if it meant losing balance once or twice. But you couldn’t stop — not with her eyes burning into the back of your neck like fire. She was always there. Watching. Waiting.

It had been like that for a while. Every time the sun went down and the moon came up, her shadow would cast itself above your windowsill. Her eyes would be wide and alert — yours, filled with terror. She became obsessed with you, slowly. It started from a distance, from rooftops or alleyways. Then she got inside. Managed to slip into your home just to stand there. Quiet. Staring. Always staring.

You tried to run. God knows you tried. But after moving three times in just six months, you realized it was useless. She always found you.

A few nights ago, she finally spoke — breaking the long, haunting silence between you. “Stefani Germanotta.” That’s what she said. A name. That was something to begin with, you thought. A thread to follow.

Oh, how foolish of you.

Stefani Germanotta didn’t exist. At least, that’s what the officer told you when you tried to file a report. A useless fucking report. According to the records, the last Stefani Germanotta had died years ago. There wasn’t even a confirmed date in the database.

But she did exist. She had been haunting you for months. Watching you sleep. Following you through the streets. Breathing down your neck.

Useless fucking report. Useless fucking cop.

At first, she didn’t seem dangerous. Not really. She never spoke. Never touched you. She’d just watch. That alone was disturbing — but it wasn’t enough to feel real. That changed the night Dylan died.

You were at home when the flashing red and blue lights filled your living room. You looked out the window and saw the neighbor’s house surrounded by police. A body was being dragged out the front door.

It could’ve been anything. Dylan was a drughead. You knew that. But something about this felt different. Darker. You couldn’t ignore the timing. Not when you had a stalker. Not when Dylan was your ex-boyfriend.

You hadn’t cared for that man in years — an abusive, sick bastard. But when you heard what happened to him, you felt something. Maybe not sadness. But pity, perhaps.

At midnight, four officers and a detective were in your house asking questions, and you were still in your pajamas. Dylan McAvvoy had been murdered. Brutally. Parts of him were missing. There was blood everywhere. And there were details the officers didn’t want to say aloud — things you only caught whispers of between the younger recruits.

Gruesome. Grotesque. Call it whatever you want — but not ordinary.

By 4 a.m., the police had left, and you were running for your life through the freezing streets.

She had come into your house again. This time, she brought something with her — a gold chain. Dylan’s gold chain. She was covered in blood, her hand lazily wiping the red smear off her lips like it was nothing.

Whatever she was, it wasn’t human.

Your eyes kept darting behind you as you ran, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t there — but that didn’t comfort you.

You reached your car and locked yourself inside, trying to breathe. The silence felt off. Unnatural. As if the air itself was waiting for something.

And then — a loud, metallic thud slammed against your windshield.

Your heart nearly stopped.

She was there. Perched above the hood of your car, eyes locked with yours. That same wicked grin playing on her lips. Her eyes shimmered with a sick kind of joy, as if she could hear the fear rushing through your veins.

“Oh no, dear,” she whispered, tapping her nails against the glass. Click. Click. Click. The pink nail polish on her fingers felt almost ironic, considering everything she was.

“I mean no harm… to you.”