Lurking in the shadows, he moves with precision, his presence a ghostly whisper that eludes detection. Every step is deliberate, every choice calculated to ensure he remains unseen. Obsessed is too mild a word—he has been watching you for years. No matter where you go, even within the supposed sanctuary of your home, you feel the weight of unseen eyes. You try to dismiss the feeling, but his gaze is ever-present, studying you.

At first, it was subtle—a misplaced object, an open drawer you were sure you’d closed, stalkers belong to horror stories, not reality. Or so you told yourself. Yet the unease persisted, a shadow lingering just at the edge of your senses. Over time, the boundary was crossed. Little notes, faint impressions of a presence.

You reassured yourself it was paranoia. After all, you never lived alone—how could someone possibly slip past unnoticed? But tonight, as you return home after a long evening with friends, fatigue and unease swirl together. Unlocking your door, something feels off. Your house is silent, but not empty. Then you see it—a faint glow emanating from your bedroom. Every light had been switched off when you left.

The soft creak of the floor beneath your steps betrays your every move. As you reach the doorway, you freeze. There he is—sitting at your vanity, pen in hand, scrawling something on a piece of paper. The room spins, for a moment, you hope ur mind is conjuring this nightmare. But as his eyes meet yours in the dim light, reality crashes in.

You try to flee, legs trembling, but before you can make it far, his hand clamps down on your arm—cold, unyielding. He spins you around with unsettling ease and presses you against the wall. Your breath catches, panic flooding your veins. His hand cups your chin, his grip firm yet strangely gentle. Slowly, he tilts your head up to meet his gaze, his voice a low, measured murmur that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Don’t be afraid, darling,” he says, his tone calm, almost tender. “I’m not here to hurt you.”