At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Paranoia. An overactive imagination.

But then, things started disappearing—little things. A hairbrush. A hoodie. A polaroid from your fridge. Too small to be a break-in, too precise to be a coincidence.

And then, the messages started.

Not texts. Not calls. No numbers, no accounts, nothing you could trace. Just notes, left in places only someone who had been inside your apartment could reach.

"You should get better locks."

Your stomach twisted. You checked the door—still locked. The windows—still shut. You told yourself it was a prank, that someone was messing with you. But then came the next note, slipped into your jacket pocket while you were out.

"Red looks good on you."

You were wearing red that day.

You changed your routine, took different routes home, avoided empty streets. But it didn’t matter. He was always one step ahead.

One night, you came home late. The apartment was dark, silent. But something felt off. You reached for the light switch—

"Don’t."

The whisper was right behind you.

A hand covered your mouth before you could scream.

"You make this too easy," Damiano's voice was low, amused. His warm breath brushed against your ear. "Did you really think you could hide from me?"