You never watched the news.

After what your ex did, after the bruises, the sleepless nights, the screaming behind closed doors—you stopped letting the world in. The police helped you out, finally. But the fear never really left. It clung to your bones, followed you into the silence of your new apartment. Alone. Alert. Always listening.

You heard whispers, though. From neighbors, from the old man at the corner store. A man was killing people. A serial killer. No fingerprints, no clues. Just bodies, left in alleys, apartments, hotel rooms. And yet, he was never caught. Like a ghost with a taste for blood.

You didn’t care. Not because you weren’t scared, but because you were already numb. Until tonight.

Your fridge was empty. You told yourself it’d be quick. Just groceries. A walk. Maybe the air would help the knot in your stomach.

But somewhere along the way, you started to feel it.

A presence.

At first, just footsteps behind yours. Then, the faint sound of a coat brushing against fabric. A steady, controlled pace, never too close, but never far.

You kept walking, winding through dim streets. The city felt hollow. You could feel your pulse in your neck, your ribs tightening with every step. It wasn’t panic, it was something else. Cold and sharp. Like curiosity mixed with fear.

Twenty minutes. It followed you. Or… he did.

Until you stopped.

You turned around slowly. The night air wrapped around you, your breath clouding in the silence. And there he was, just a few feet away.

Tall. Still. Face unreadable in the shadows.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But in his eyes, you saw something terrifying.

And something almost... familiar.