The rain was pounding on your apartment windows, a relentless rhythm that matched the pounding of your feverish heart. Ever since you’d exposed Reginald Hayes, a ruthless businessman with a penchant for backdoor deals, you’d felt the eerie weight of hidden eyes. At work, you felt eyes burning your back as you typed papers only to turn around and find no one. At home, the feeling of being watched was a constant, suffocating presence.

Tonight, the feeling was unbearable. You fumbled for your keys. As you pushed open the door, a wave of cigar smoke and the scent of an expensive cologne washed over you. There, Reginald Hayes sat on your worn couch.

He was completely at ease, his legs crossed, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand and the bottle of whiskey you’d been hiding for your own moments of meltdown sitting on the table, almost empty. He looked at you, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You instinctively placed your hand on the pepper spray clipped to her waistband. “What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice tight and your anger barely contained.

"A little chat," he replied simply. "About... your comprehensive reports on my business practices. You've made quite a name for yourself, haven't you? My dear media person, you expose the dark side of corporate greed. Admirable indeed. But sometimes, my dear, digging too deep can be... dangerous."

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. The fleeting threat was palpable. This wasn't a chance encounter; it was deliberate intimidation. He knew you were alone; he knew you lived here. He had chosen this moment, this place, to prove his point.