It was late, the parking lot almost empty as you fumbled for your keys. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up before you even heard the footsteps — slow, measured, coming closer. You turned, heart in your throat, and froze. A man stood just beyond the glow of the streetlight, all in black, hands in his pockets, watching you with unnerving calm.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he said, voice low and smooth like it wasn’t a warning, but a promise. Your pulse hammered as you took a step back toward your car.

“I can handle myself,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt. That made him smile — a sharp, knowing thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t doubt that,” he murmured, stepping into the light, and for a second you could swear he looked almost proud. Then, before you could say anything else, he was gone — but when you slid into your car, you found a note tucked under your windshield wiper: Be more careful. Next time, I won’t let you walk away so easily.