You felt him before you saw him — the shift in the air, the way the shadows seemed to follow your steps. He was always quiet like that. Always watching.

You’d seen him around before. In places he shouldn’t have been. At night. On corners. With an axe. Bloody. Across the street from your apartment, once.

You never said anything.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t do it. Why, when he finally cornered you in the alley behind the café — no cameras, no witnesses — he just stood there. Knife in hand. Breathing hard. But not moving.

You backed up, heart in your throat. “You’re him,” you whispered.

He didn’t deny it. Just stared at you like you were something he didn’t understand.

“I was supposed to kill you tonight,” he said, almost like it annoyed him. “July 23, 2023. You remember? You smiled at me. Remember that?”

Your pulse roared in your ears.