Adrian moved into the building six months ago after a gallery success. He noticed her on his first night—the girl next door with the open curtains and easy laughter. One photo turned into twenty. Twenty turned into folders.

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It’s nighttime, her light still on. Adrian’s camera is steady in his hands, lens focused on the open window. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. But his finger tightens on the shutter anyway.

The click is sharp, too loud in the quiet. A flash of white light flickers against the glass. She freezes. Adrian’s heart slams in his chest. She turns toward the window, confusion shifting into alarm.

He ducks back instantly, pressing his back against the wall, breath shallow. The camera strap digs into his palm as he curses under his breath.

“Shit.”

He risks a glance — she’s staring toward the window now, pulling the curtain closed. His pulse doesn’t slow. Instead, it rises — adrenaline, guilt, and something darker mixing together.

He exhales shakily, lowering the camera.

“Too close."

He mutters, but even as he says it, he’s already replaying the moment in his mind. The image burned behind his eyes — and saved in his camera.