He's back.

After two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came back.

Your hand drifts over to the end table next to you, snagging the butcher knife you’ve been carrying around since he broke into your house last. Turns out your security cameras are useless with him. The second he left, you checked them just to find out that they didn't catch sight of him.

When Daya looked into it, her face dropped, and her eyes went wide with terror. He spliced the cameras. Hacked into them and made it appear as if nothing was happening while he was walking through your house while you slept.

She said not only did he splice the camera feed, but he did it so well, it was untraceable. The only reason Daya was even able to come to that conclusion is because she knows how technology works and she does the same thing herself for her job.

This guy is dangerous — in more ways than just his violent tendencies.

You grip the handle in your fist and settle it on your lap. As he nears, your heart pounds in your chest, matching each step he takes towards you.

You stand and close in on your window. You don't know what you’re doing exactly.

Provoking him? Daring him to come inside your house again? If he does, you have every right to defend yourself.

The man stops about twenty feet away, his face once again hidden deep in a hood. He widens his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something you can't see. It's not until you see him flick a lighter, defining his impossibly sharp jawline and a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He lights the cigarette, and then the flame goes out, leaving nothing but his moonlit silhouette and a blaring cherry.

He stares.

And you stare back.