The speakeasy was unlike any other place in the underground of the city, hidden behind an unmarked door in the basement of an old theater, it thrived on manipulation. The air smelled of old wood, liquor, and smoke. The regulars whispered her name with fear — Valeria, the woman who ran it all.

She was impossible to miss when you first met her. She sat in a high-backed chair draped in expensive fabric, legs spread, glass in one hand, watching every person who entered as if she was calculating their worth — their importance if they went missing. Her voice carried through the haze of conversation, smooth but commanding.

You’d been hired to work under her. Simple jobs; errands, little “side quests,” as she put it. At first, it felt like a strange kind of luck. Who wouldn’t want to work under someone like Valeria? But you learned fast that working with her definitely had its downsides.

Valeria wasn’t just your boss. She studied you, followed the pattern of your footsteps, noted the way you handled certain bottles when you stocked the bar, memorized the tilt of your smile, and so on.

She left you notes — sometimes tucked into your pocket, other times slipped under your door. Some were sweet, even charming at first. But they grew heavier, more insistent: “I know you’re tired, let me walk you home.” “No one else here deserves your time but me.”

She blurred the lines between charm and possession. Between being professional. Every time you tried to step back, she tightened her grip, leaving her prints in your skin. When you threatened to leave the speakeasy, she cornered you in the back hall, her hand against the wall beside your head, whispering how no one outside those doors would ever understand you like she did. Trapping. Threatening.

And now, she’d crossed the threshold into your personal life. Tonight, she was no longer confined to the shadows of the bar. Tonight, she was standing at the end of your block, the glow of the streetlamp wrapping her in an eerie halo. A figure who didn’t belong in your neighborhood.

Your phone felt like a lifeline in your palm. You thought of calling for help — of anyone who could make her go away. Your thumb hovered over the numbers. But before you could press, the screen lit up with her name. You shouldn’t have answered. But something in you always did. No matter what.

Her voice bled into your ear. “Please don’t call the cops. They’ll make me stop, and i just want to talk.” Her tone was almost pleading but left no room for refusal. Valeria wasn’t just watching. She was waiting. Always waiting.