At first, it was just a tight feeling around your neck when you spoke in front of a crowd, or maybe the squeezing pressure in your chest whenever you walked through a busy street. Perhaps he had always been there, lingering in the background, and you just never noticed.

The faint shadow of his fingers seemed to wrap around your throat, silencing your voice in the middle of a presentation. A whisper here, a murmur there—easily mistaken for your own thoughts.

Staying home would be so much better.

The more you heard him, the more you felt him, and the clearer he became. Days consumed by anxious thoughts and lingering fears must have finally driven you to the edge. Maybe that’s why, when he first appeared, he didn’t feel like a stranger or a ghost.

He was polite, introducing himself as though you hadn’t been haunted by his presence long before.

Mr. Fear, he called himself, his frame tall and slim.

Simple tasks grew harder under Mr. F’s watchful eye. He always insisted on knowing what was best for you, his tone sweet and disarmingly kind—like a trusted confidant.

“My dear…”

The rasp of his voice brushed your ear as his hand slid up to your throat. His towering form pressed against you from behind, pinning you gently but firmly against the door you so desperately wanted to open. Days of hiding had led to this moment, but now it felt impossible to leave.

“Where are you going?” he murmured, his deep voice tinged with an almost tender concern. “Come on…”

His other hand came to rest against your stomach, his palm applying the slightest pressure, as if urging you to lean into him. To rely on him.

“You know I mean well.”