The rain came early tonight.

It streaked down the glass like tears, softening the reflections of the café lights. The hum of the espresso machine was the only heartbeat in the small shop as you wiped the counter clean. The night was quiet — until the bell above the door chimed.

He stepped in.

A tall man in a dark coat, rainwater glistening off his hair. He didn’t look like he belonged here. His shoes were too polished, his watch too expensive, his gaze too still.

“Black coffee,” he said. His voice was low, deliberate — the kind that lingered in your head after it was gone.

When you handed him the cup, his fingers brushed yours. Cold. Too cold.

He took the same seat by the window every night after that.

Always at 8:43 PM. Always the corner seat.

And every night, he ordered the same thing.

And every night, you felt his eyes on you — even when you turned away.

At first, it was small things.

The lights flickering when he arrived. Your name whispered in a voice you couldn’t place, long after the café closed.

Your phone lighting up with messages from unknown numbers that said things like:

“You looked beautiful when you smiled at the child today.” “You shouldn’t walk home alone.”

When you tried to block them, the numbers changed.

But the messages never stopped.

And one night, you came to the café early — and found a file on the counter. Your file.

Your school photos, your old apartment address, a list of every job you’d had since college.

All neatly typed, stapled, labelled Property of D. Heng Industries.

Then the doorbell chimed again, you looked at the clock.

*8:43 PM.

He was early this time.