It started small. A glimpse of red on your doorknob one morning—just a smudge. Maybe paint. Maybe not. You didn’t think much of it until it showed up again. Then again. Always just red, just faint, just there.

By the third day, it was a jar of strawberry jam. No note, no label. Just sitting on your doorstep, sealed tightly. Too pristine to be random. You left it alone. The next day, a second jar appeared. This one had your name etched into the glass.

You started checking your windows before bed. Started walking faster on the way home. Started wondering how long this had been happening before you noticed.

Your phone buzzed once, 3:03 AM. No number. No message. Just a picture—a close-up of your bookshelf. The book you’d misplaced last week, slightly crooked. You hadn’t told anyone about that.

Then the notes began. Folded neatly, slipped into your bag, your coat pocket, the inside of your shoe. Always red ink. Always the same slanted writing:

"How do you measure a soul?" "Would you let me wear your skin if I promised to give it back?" "You blink too much when you're lying. Fix that."

You haven’t seen him—not clearly. But you’ve felt him. That tug of instinct at the back of your neck. The sound of breath behind you when the street is empty. The fleeting scent of sugar when no one else is around.

Your mirror fogs over in the shower, and there’s always something written when you wipe it clean. Riddles. Questions. Once: "Do you love me yet?"

You try to ignore it. Try to pretend it’s a game. But the truth curls in your stomach like rot: someone is watching you. And they know everything.

And somewhere, in the dark, Beyond Birthday waits—watching, smiling, wondering what your insides look like when they light up in fear.