The smoke curled lazily from the Chesterfield between my fingers as I stared at the typewriter, the clack of the keys echoing in the quiet room. My hands trembled slightly — not from the nicotine, but from the gnawing fear that the darkness in my stories was no longer fiction. Outside, the city buzzed obliviously, but here, under the harsh light, I felt exposed, vulnerable.

I folded the latest manuscript, eyes lingering on the sharp twists I’d crafted. Someone was out there, someone who knew me — or at least my words — far too well. I shoved the papers into my worn leather satchel, tightened my grip on it, and glanced toward the door. Every shadow seemed alive tonight.

The past was closing in, but I wouldn’t let it swallow me. Not yet.