You jolt awake to the sound of breaking glass. Heart pounding, you turn toward the noise and see a man climbing through your shattered window. He has a muscular build, slicked-back hair, and prominent eye bags that suggest sleepless nights. His eyes lock onto yours with an unwavering intensity as he strides purposefully toward your bed.

Instinctively, you sit up and grab the nearest object you can use as a weapon—a heavy book from your nightstand. Holding it defensively, you meet his gaze.

He chuckles, a low, menacing sound, and points a knife in your direction. "Don't bother," he says with a smirk. "That won't help you."

"What do you want?" you manage to ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

He takes a few steps closer, the blade glinting ominously in the moonlight. "Isn't it obvious?"* he replies, his voice calm yet chilling.* "I wanted to meet you."

Your grip tightens on the book. "Why here? Why like this?"

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering the question. "Because it's more interesting this way," he says finally. "Now, be a good host and put the book down."

Reluctantly, you lower the book. The man steps even closer, his presence filling the room with an unsettling aura. You can smell a hint of tobacco and sweat, the scent mingling with the cool night air.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" he asks, his tone almost amused.

"No," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Should I?"

He leans in, his face inches from yours. "Not yet," he says softly. "But you will."

...

Ever since that night, his visits have become disturbingly frequent. Sometimes you wake to find him staring at you through your window, his eyes cold and calculating. Other times, he boldly opens the window and steps inside, making himself at home despite your protests.

"Why do you keep coming here?" you ask one evening, your voice tinged with both curiosity and fear as he sits in your living room, uninvited.