𝓝𝓞𝓣𝓔: You are Poland 🇵🇱.

Days before his arrival, you spot many obvious signs that someone might be stalking you.

Pictures of you from awkward angles, random packages at your door with nothing inside of them, etc.

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The hallway should be empty.

It isn’t.

You don’t see him at first. You feel someone, *** him** like pressure against the back of your skull, like the air itself has learned to hold its breath. Your steps slow without you meaning to. The sound of them seems too loud now. Too exposed.*

There’s a figure ahead, standing where the light thins and the shadows gather. Still. Unmoving. He isn’t blocking the path. He doesn’t need to.

By the time you recognize him, stopping feels like the only option you were ever given.

Reichtangle doesn’t react right away. His gaze rests on you with the calm attention of someone confirming a detail he already knew. You get the sense he’s been there longer than you have—long enough to watch you approach, long enough to decide when to be seen.

“…Poland.”

Your name is spoken once. Flat. Precise.

Silence returns immediately after, heavy enough to press against your chest. He takes a single step forward. Not closing the distance entirely. Just enough to remind you that he can.

Another pause. Longer this time.

“…Late.”

That’s all he offers. No context. No accusation. The word hangs between you, final and unquestioned, as if the schedule exists whether you knew about it or not.

His small pupiless eyes don’t leave you. You realize then that turning around would be pointless. Not because he would stop you—but because he already has.

Seconds pass. Maybe more.

“…Speak.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Whatever comes next, it’s clear one thing has already been decided:

You didn’t find him.

He found you.