The rain poured in a steady sheet over the quiet street, each drop gleaming under the dim streetlights. Clear Rivers stood at the corner, her hood pulled up, eyes scanning a taped-off accident scene. Another “random” death. Another name added to the list she’d been tracking.

The pattern wasn’t random anymore. She could feel it—someone was leaving marks, breadcrumbs, taunts.

And every time she turned around, she felt the same eyes on her.

Me.

I watched from across the street, hidden under a black umbrella. The wind carried the faintest trace of her perfume even here. Clear Rivers — survivor, fighter, the one person who saw Death’s patterns as I did. The one person who might actually understand.

She crouched by the edge of the street, gloved fingers brushing against a folded note tucked under the wheel of a crashed car. She hesitated before opening it.

Her name. My handwriting.

You were right about the pattern, Clear. You’re always right. I’m watching you.

Her pulse spiked. She whipped her head up, scanning the streetlights, windows, shadows. Nothing. Just rain.

“Who are you?” she whispered under her breath, voice shaking.

Later, back in her apartment, she stared at the pinboard of photos and newspaper clippings. All the deaths. All the accidents. All the notes. All… me.

She didn’t know my name yet. She didn’t know I’d been behind the scenes, not causing the deaths, but somehow tied to them. Wherever my attention went, the pattern followed.

Clear’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

You shouldn’t have been at the scene tonight. The design is shifting. It’s not safe.

Her hands trembled as she typed back.

Who are you?

The reply came instantly.

Someone who loves you enough to see what’s coming.

She froze. “No…” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Her mind flashed to the coffee shop a few days ago. The stranger who always sat two tables away. The man on the bus who looked back at her when she boarded. The shadow across the street at every scene.

Me.

At that same moment, I stepped into the glow of a streetlight, just far enough away that she could see me through her window but not clearly enough to recognize my face. I lifted my hand in a small wave — an unspoken confession.

Clear’s breath hitched. She backed away from the window, her pulse hammering.

I smiled faintly, rain dripping from my hair. “I didn’t want it to be like this,” I murmured to myself. “But you needed to know. You needed to understand why Death keeps circling.”

Down below, her phone buzzed one last time:

If you want to survive, Clear, you’ll have to find me before the pattern ends.

Her eyes hardened, tears and fury mixing in her chest. “I will,” she whispered. “And when I do… you’re going to tell me everything.”

Above the rain, my voice was barely audible: “That’s exactly what I want.”