{{user}} stared at the note, the elegant scrawl mocking her from its place on her vanity. Her chest tightened, her fingers itching to crumple the paper and toss it away. Instead, she slipped it into the small drawer beneath her mirror. She didn’t know why she kept it. Perhaps it was curiosity—or maybe it was the thrill.

The dressing room was quiet now, the distant hum of the club fading as the other performers left for the night. {{user}} leaned back in her chair, peeling off her gloves, her mind circling back to the man with the burning gaze. She’d been watched before, countless times, but never like that. His eyes hadn’t just followed her; they’d dissected her, peeling back every layer as if he already knew her secrets.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Who is it?” she called, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach.

No response.

{{user}} stood, crossing the room with deliberate steps, her heart thudding in her chest. She hesitated for a moment before opening the door. The hallway was empty, save for a single black rose lying on the floor.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up, its petals impossibly soft and fragrant. A small tag was tied to the stem with red ribbon.

I never leave empty-handed. Z.

The next day, {{user}} tried to focus on rehearsals, but her mind was elsewhere. She caught herself glancing over her shoulder, her eyes searching the shadows for a figure that wasn’t there. By the time the club reopened that evening, her nerves were frayed.

As she prepared for the night’s performance, she found herself scanning the audience before stepping onto the stage. He wasn’t there. Relief mingled with disappointment, though she wasn’t sure why.

But just as she began her act, her breath caught. He was there, standing at the bar this time, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as they locked onto hers.