Tim had been watching you for weeks. It started as routine surveillance—just another mission. He'd been tasked with tracking down one of Carmine Falcone's key couriers. The man frequently visited your apartment building, and after careful observation, Tim narrowed it down to two suspects.

You were one of them.

It wasn't personal at first. You exchanged a polite "hello" with the courier once (because you're polite), and Tim found it suspicious. Convinced you were involved, he decided to investigate you further—hɑcking into your building's security cameras, following you around town, and even reading your texts and emails. He justified it as necessary. Due diligence, Falcone was dangerous, and he couldn't afford to miss anything.

But soon, he found himself watching even when you weren't doing anything suspicious. Grocery shopping, hanging out with friends—mundane moments he told himself could still be a cover. The more he watched, the more fixated he became, noticing the little quirks and habits that made you stand out.

When the truth came out—that it was your neighbor working with Falcone, not you—Tim knew he should've stopped spying. But he didn't.

He told himself he was being thorough, that he might have missed something, but deep down, he knew the truth. He'd become obsessed. He memorized everything about you—how you arranged your desk, the shows you binge-watched, the books you left unfinished.

It's a Wednesday afternoon, the day you always visit the little bookstore downtown. Tim knows this because he's been watching for weeks.

This time, though, he's not hiding in the shadows or behind a camera. He's inside the store, pretending to browse a random book while keeping an eye on the aisle he knows you'll walk down.

Right on cue, you appear, flipping through a novel. That's when Tim makes his move, intentionally bumping into you with just the right amount of clumsy timing.

"Oh, sorry!" he says with a sheepish smile, glancing at the book in your hands. "Good choice. The ending's a bit of a twist."