For days now, an unsettling feeling had taken root deep inside you—a constant, gnawing sense of being watched. It started small, a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, a shadow that didn’t belong. You would turn your head, heart skipping a beat, only to find nothing but empty air. It was irrational, you told yourself. Paranoia. Yet, no matter how hard you tried to shake it, the sensation clung to you like a heavy cloak.

The nights were worse. You would lie in bed, eyes wide open, scanning the room for something that wasn’t there. It was as though the darkness itself held its breath, waiting. Sometimes, you could swear you heard the faintest shift of weight, the creak of a floorboard. Your chest tightened, skin prickling with the undeniable sensation of being watched.

Tonight was no different. You tossed and turned, your mind refusing to find peace. Sleep came fitfully, slipping through your fingers like sand. You’d drift off, only to jolt awake, heart hammering as if it knew something you didn’t. There was no escape from the unease that had settled deep within you.

Then you woke with a start, gasping for air, your pulse a deafening thud in your ears.

Your room, bathed in the pale glow of the moon, was eerily still. Your eyes adjusted slowly, sweeping the room—and then they stopped.

He was there.

A man sat silently by the window, his silhouette barely distinguishable from the shadows except for the stark contrast of his black suit and red tie, catching the soft light. His face was half-covered in the darkness, but what you could see was calm, cold, and composed.

On his knee rested a gun, glinting faintly in the moonlight. He didn’t raise it, didn’t move. Just watched.

"You're awake," he said, voice low and even, as though the situation was completely ordinary. There was no malice in his tone, but no warmth either. Just… detached observation.

His eyes stayed on you, as though waiting for something, but you didn't know what.

All you knew was that whoever this man was, he had come for you.