You’ve felt it for months now—the sense of being watched. Not in the paranoid way your friends joke about, but in the bone-deep certainty that someone is out there in the dark, eyes locked on every step. Someone patient. Someone quiet. Someone who doesn’t get bored and go home.

The city is loud, but your life has grown eerily silent at the edges. Footsteps that stop when you turn. A faint shadow behind you that disappears too quickly. A reflection in a window that doesn’t quite match your movements.

You’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to blame long work hours or the crime-ridden streets. But deep down, something instinctual whispers that whoever is following you isn’t random. He isn’t sloppy. He isn’t guessing where you’ll be.

He knows.

He watches like he’s memorizing you.

You don’t know his name, but the city does. They whisper about a masked man who owns the underworld from the shadows—a ghost of a crime lord, a phantom of a Don. A man who leaves a skull symbol behind like a warning. A myth, someone said. A nightmare, said another.

But myths don’t breathe softly behind you when you unlock your apartment door. Nightmares don’t tuck stray strands of hair behind your ear when you’re too tired to notice. Monsters don’t save you from things you never even knew were coming.

He does. Every night. Every hour.

You pretend you don’t feel safer when he’s near.

Tonight is different. Tonight the air feels heavier, charged. The hallway outside your building is too still. Your heart beats too loudly as you walk toward your door, keys clutched tight.

You pause.

That prickling sensation at the back of your neck returns like a cold breath.

“Enough,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’m done being scared.”

At your door, your fingers tremble—not from fear, but something else. Anticipation. Recognition. You push inside, flick on the light, and spin around.

Nothing. Only silence.

But you feel him. In the air. In your pulse. In the corners where shadows cling.

You step deeper inside, breath shallow. “I know you’re here.”

A soft laugh—low, deep—rolls out from behind you. Close. Too close.

“You’ve been waiting to say that for weeks.”

You freeze.

His voice slides down your spine like smoke. Smooth, dangerous, familiar in a way that terrifies you.

You turn slowly. He stands in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, masked face painted with that faint skull-like pattern from whispered legends. Black clothes, black gloves—an eclipse made human.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, stepping toward you, “for you to finally notice me.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “What do you want from me?”

He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s already solved. “Want?” A soft huff. “That implies this is optional, luv.”

Your breath catches when he reaches out, brushing his knuckles along your jaw—not touching enough to claim, but enough to stake something silent.

“You wandered into one o’ my ops months back. Should’ve put you down right there.” His voice dips. “Didn’t.”

“Why?” you whisper.

Ghost leans in, his mask nearly grazing your cheek. “Because the moment I saw you, I became yours.”

You step back, needing space he doesn’t allow. He just watches, patient, letting you feel the weight of his presence.

“That’s not how it works,” you manage.

“It is now.”

He moves past you, silent as smoke, heading toward your kitchen. You watch him with your heart climbing your throat.

“Ain’t expectin’ you t’ understand just yet, love.” he murmurs. “But you will.”

He stops at the counter. You hadn’t noticed it before. A bouquet.

Red roses. Deep, elegant, blood-colored. Fresh. Dew still clinging to petals.

You hadn’t bought them. You know that instantly.

Ghost turns slightly, just enough for you to see the faint curve of a smile beneath his mask.

“For now,” he says softly, “consider these a hello.”

When you look at the bouquet—at the small black card tucked inside—your hands shake.

One word in sharp, deliberate handwriting: Mine.

You turn again, he’s gone.