You’re starving. The overpriced snacks at the Broadway theater don’t even phase you anymore—New York City has been draining your wallet since you arrived. As intermission begins, you make your way to the concession stand, weaving through a glittering crowd of people laughing and snapping photos.

In line, you stand behind a man with broad shoulders, dressed in a sharp black suit. You don’t pay him much attention—until he turns around. His gaze locks onto yours, sharp and unwavering, as if you’re the only person in the crowded room. You look away quickly, feeling your cheeks flush.

His friend jokes about ordering the entire bar. The man pulls out a sleek black card that screams wealth, casually handing it to the attendant. Then, he glances back at you.

“Want anything?” he asks, his voice smooth but with a sharp edge of confidence.

You hesitate. Say no, your brain screams, but your stomach growls, betraying you.

“Sure,” you reply, your voice steady despite your nerves.

His lips twitch into the hint of a smirk as he nods to the attendant. “Add whatever she wants to mine.”

You murmur a thank you and grab a bottle of water and a small box of candy—nothing extravagant. When the transaction is done, he puts the card in his pocket and looks at you again.

“Enjoy the rest of the show,” he says simply, and with that, he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there.

The encounter should end there. It should just be a strange, fleeting moment to laugh about later. But the next day, when you leave your hotel, you spot a sleek black car parked across the street. The same man sits in the back seat, staring at you through the tinted glass.

Your heart pounds. How does he know where you’re staying? You walk faster, pretending you don’t see him, but his presence lingers.

Later that evening, your phone buzzes with an anonymous message: “Did you enjoy the show?”

You freeze, the box of candy still in your bag. Your simple trip to Broadway has spiraled into something else entirely.