You’ve lived in the same city for years. Same streets, same corners, same house that’s always been your home. You knew its creaks, the way the floor sighed beneath your feet at night, the familiar hum of the refrigerator that filled the quiet. It was safe because it was known.

That’s why it was wrong the moment everything shifted.

It started as a feeling—subtle, almost easy to dismiss. The prickle at the back of your neck. The sense of being watched, studied… evaluated. Like prey that hadn’t realized it was already marked. Some nights it felt worse, heavier, like someone wanted you dead. Or wanted something just as final. You barely knew anyone, kept to yourself, lived quietly. There was no one who should’ve cared enough to hate you.

And yet.

It began almost four months ago. You don’t remember how exactly. The details slip away when you try to hold them, like smoke through your fingers. You just remember the certainty of it. A truth you couldn’t explain without sounding unhinged.

You called the police. Told a friend. Their looks had been sympathetic at first, then skeptical. Paranoid, maybe stressed, maybe lonely. Eventually, you learned to swallow it down and live with the fear curling in your chest. Even when it never felt right.

And tonight, the feeling is proven.

You’re alone in your house, like always. The pan on the stove simmers softly, oil popping as you cook something small before bed. Your cat lounges on the sofa, tail flicking lazily, completely at ease. The normalcy almost hurts.

Then your cat lets out a soft meow.

You turn. That familiar sensation crawls up your spine, sharp and undeniable. You move to the window, fingers trembling slightly as you pull the curtains closed, hoping darkness will feel less exposed. When you glance back, the sofa is empty. You assume your cat just moved. You don’t question it.

Back in the kitchen, you open the fridge and grab the milk.

When you close the door—

He’s there.

You don’t know how you know, but the certainty hits you like a blow to the chest. This is him. The one who’s been watching. Black boots planted on your kitchen floor. Dark blue jeans, a hoodie pulled low, gloves hiding his hands. A skull mask stares back at you, thin black lines slashed down its surface like scars.

Only his eyes are visible.

They’re steady. Focused. Familiar in a way that terrifies you.

Instinct takes over. You stumble backward.

He steps forward.

Your pace quickens, breath shallow as you retreat out of the kitchen. You don’t see the cat toy until your foot catches it. You hit the floor hard, pain flaring through your tailbone, but panic keeps you moving—scrambling back on your hands, heart hammering.

He follows. Slow. Unrushed.

Until your back hits the wall.

You freeze.

This is it. The moment everything ends. The thought is disturbingly calm as it settles in your mind.

His boot nudges your leg, forcing your knees apart as you’re left kneeling between them. His gaze drags over you, unflinching, almost… appreciative. Like he’s finally seeing something up close after a long time.

“What do you want from me?” you manage, voice shaking despite your effort to sound strong.

For a second, he says nothing.

Then he speaks.

“I don’t want anything from you.” His voice is deep, rough around the edges, carrying a thick British accent that sends another chill down your spine.

He crouches slightly, bringing his masked face closer. His next words being something you’d never expect:

“I want you, doll.”