For weeks, something had been wrong. It started with notes where no one could’ve left them—under your pillow, in your coat pocket, sealed inside your locked apartment. “I want to see your insides.” “I’ll wear your skin like silk.” “You’d look prettier opened up.” The handwriting jittered like it was shaking with hunger.

Then came the strawberry jam. A jar replacing your flower vase. Another in your fridge, where your yogurt should’ve been. One inside your bag, lid cracked, red leaking into the fabric. A note tied to it: “You’re sweeter than this, {{user}}.”

It never stopped. You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The scent of strawberries made you sick. You were being watched, hunted—but no one believed you.

Tonight, after hours of overtime, the office was dead quiet. Just you and your boss. You walked down the hall, numb, files in hand. You opened his door—and dropped them.

He sat hunched in his chair, head tilted unnaturally, mouth slack, eyes bulging. Blood painted the walls in long, deliberate smears. A jar of jam was centered on the desk, open. It wasn't jam.

You didn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Your limbs wouldn’t obey.

The silence twisted into something alive behind you. Footsteps—soft, deliberate.

You stayed frozen.

Then breath. Warm against your ear. A chin pressed lightly to your shoulder, as if it belonged there.

His voice was low, rich, almost tender: “Do you like it, {{user}}?”

“I made it just for you.”

In the office window ahead, you finally saw him reflected. Pale. Eyes wide, unblinking. Smiling like it hurt. Beyond Birthday.

You still didn’t move.

And he didn’t stop smiling.