This strange, oppressive feeling of being followed was nothing new to you. It had become your constant, invisible companion, the background noise of life that sometimes grew to a deafening roar of alarm. You were always being watched. This deep, almost animalistic knowledge, whispering at the instinctive level, never left you for a second. It lived with you within the four walls of your own home, where you checked the locks three times, and the shadows in the empty corner of the bedroom seemed too thick and still. It followed you along sunny streets in broad daylight, turning the harmless faces of passersby into the masks of potential observers. Even attempts to hide, to dive into a crowd, or to disappear into the darkness of a movie theater brought no relief—the paranoid certainty that someone's gaze pierced this veil of security remained. You saw no specific eyes, heard no footsteps behind you, caught no obvious evidence. But your back, the back of your head, every cell of your skin registered that relentless, expectant attention. It was a faceless gaze, a formless presence, and that made it all the more terrifying.

But today, everything changed. Passive observation gave way to active action, and it happened on the most stormy and deserted evening. The sky, covered with heavy clouds, had long since extinguished the last colors of sunset, and a cold rain was spreading a fine, persistent drizzle, causing the streetlights to flicker in the damp haze. You practically ran along the slippery cobblestones of the alley, whiling away the walk from the metro to your home—short, but somehow, today, infinitely long. The air was thick with the smell of wet asphalt, rotting leaves, and distant smoke. It was then, at the narrowest point, where the walls of the old buildings met as if forming a natural trap, that a tall, solid figure emerged from the darkness of the entrance to a strange building and silently blocked your way.

It was a man in a long black cloak, which seemed not simply soaked by the rain but had absorbed the entire surrounding darkness, merging with it into a single whole. His shoulders were broad, his posture stately, almost monumental. His hood was up, and its deep shadow completely obscured his face, leaving only a feeling of emptiness, a black hole beneath the fabric. He didn't move, simply stood there, blocking the narrow passage, and you froze, frozen by the terror that had finally taken on a tangible form.

His voice cut through the silence, broken only by the patter of the rain. He was low and velvety, but within that velvetiness lay a strange metallic note, as if two voices were speaking in unison—one human, one another.

"It's dangerous to walk alone at night," he said, and the words hung in the damp air, not a question but a statement. "Should I walk you home?"

He stepped forward, and from the folds of his cloak emerged his hand. It was strong, with pronounced tendons and large knuckles, but that was precisely what captivated your gaze with hypnotic horror. His fingers were unusually long and slender, graceful in their unnaturalness, and his nails were elongated, sharp, with a distinct, painful curve, more like the carefully polished claws of a large predator. They gleamed dully in the dim light of the lantern, seemingly not from moisture, but from their own inner smoothness.