Late autumn in London shows its wet, cold, and thoroughly unwelcoming side. Thick grey fog creeps through the Victorian streets, leaving a damp shimmer across the university windows. You’ve been here for your semester abroad for nearly two months now, and while the city itself is slowly becoming familiar, one thing has remained consistently unsettling:

Your phone and laptop no longer entirely belong to you. It started subtly.

Spotify opening on its own, playing songs you had quietly mentioned once in passing at a café. Your screen brightness lowering exactly when your migraine started. Files mysteriously renaming themselves into strange little comments only you would understand.

Then came the messages. Never threatening. Never vulgar. Just… invasive.

As if someone had slipped silently into the spaces between your daily life and made himself comfortable there. What you didn’t know was that somewhere across Camden, in an apartment washed in blue monitor light and cigarette smoke, sat Alistair.

Nineteen years old. Brilliant. Controlled. The kind of intelligence that becomes dangerous precisely because it never needs to prove itself. He had noticed you weeks ago in the university library—your posture, your concentration, the little crease between your brows whenever you read too long.

And since then, he had made himself part of your life with quiet precision. Because he wanted your attention.

The lecture hall drags on endlessly that afternoon. Rain taps softly against the high windows while the professor drones on about macroeconomic theory in a voice so monotonous it borders on hypnotic. Students type half-hearted notes or scroll under their desks.

Your laptop sits open in front of you. Suddenly, the screen dims, just enough to make you notice.

The cursor moves on its own.

A small black window unfolds neatly over your lecture notes. Minimalistic. Elegant. No username. No icon, only text.

"You keep shifting your weight onto your left shoulder when you're bored."

You stare at the message.

Another line appears a moment later.

"And you've reread the same paragraph four times now. I don't blame you, but you'll get a stiff neck."

Your fingers immediately move toward the trackpad to force-close the window. Before you can click, another message appears.

"Careful. I spent all morning getting around that firewall update."

A pause.

Then: "And honestly? I expected a more sophisticated password from you, darling."

The word sits there on the screen like it belongs. You glance around instinctively, but nobody else reacts yet.

Somewhere else in the city, Alistair leans back in his chair, dark curls falling loosely into his eyes while London rain rattles softly against his apartment windows. One hand taps lazily against his keyboard, silver rings glinting faintly beneath the monitor glow. Waiting for the little typing cursor to finally appear on his screen.