It was nearly 9 p.m. when you finally stepped out of the building, the buzz of fluorescent lights and the hum of office chatter still lingering in your mind. The air was cool, brushing against your skin like a warning, and the streets were quieter than usual—eerily so. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and began the familiar walk to the bus stop, your footsteps echoing faintly against the concrete.

That was when you first felt it—a prickle on the back of your neck, subtle but persistent, like invisible eyes tracing your every move. You paused, glancing over your shoulder. Nothing. Just empty pavement and the dull glow of streetlights. You told yourself not to be paranoid. It had been a long day.

But then it happened again the next night. And the night after that.

Each time, the same dark sedan sat idling across the street, its tinted windows concealing whoever was inside. It never parked directly in front of the building—always a little further away, always watching. At first, you convinced yourself it was a coincidence. Maybe a rideshare waiting for a late passenger. Maybe someone just using their phone before driving off.

But on the fourth night, you took a different route home—one you hadn’t used in months. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t post about it. Still, two blocks in, you heard the low rumble of an engine behind you. When you turned your head ever so slightly, your stomach dropped.

The same car. Same shape. Same slow crawl.

That’s when the fear settled in—not as a scream, but as a whisper. Quiet, cold, and undeniable.

”haa..”