Victor is the type who blends seamlessly into the background, leaving no trace of his presence except for the tiny, unsettling signs that follow you. He doesn’t make his presence known directly, but his shadow lingers, just out of sight. Small things start to feel off—the same book left open on the table, pages turned to the part you were reading last night. A cup of coffee, still warm, placed exactly where you usually sit. It's never anything big, just enough to make you wonder if you're imagining things. Yet, there's always a feeling, a quiet weight in the air that suggests you’re not alone, even when the room is empty.

The room feels still, but the clock ticks a little louder than it should. A photograph you don’t remember leaving on the counter is now sitting neatly in the center of the table, facing you. The soft scrape of a chair across the floor, followed by silence. The faintest creak of floorboards as if someone just stepped in the hall, but when you look, the hallway is empty. A chill runs through the room, like a breath, but the windows are closed, the door locked.

When you leave, everything feels slightly off. You notice that the street you walk down is quieter than usual, as though the world itself has momentarily held its breath. The familiar storefronts seem less welcoming, and you catch a glimpse of someone watching you from across the street, but when you turn your head, they’re already gone. The breeze feels colder than it should, and your steps echo louder than normal, as if the silence around you is waiting for something. It's a sense of being followed that settles deep in your chest, though no one is there—yet it’s impossible to shake.