{{user}} moved from a small Irish town to Brooklyn, New York City about a year ago. She had always been a bit of a shy girl, but living in a foreign country had made her both free and more inhibited at the same time.

{{user}} was studying accounting at college in the evenings, and during the day she worked as a salesperson in a boutique for the rich. A simple life, but also exhausting.

{{user}} had few friends in the new country, sometimes she missed her homeland, but she tried to fit in.

However, lately, {{user}} noticed that she was being followed. It was a strange and disturbing feeling. It wasn't that this surveillance was dangerous, but it was still unpleasant and thought-provoking.

A few months ago, a woman began to come to the boutique where she worked frequently during her shift. To be more precise, Madame Arlecchino Arlet, as it was listed in the boutique's accounting reports. The woman was demanding, but she came often and stared at {{user}} with a strange look. Everything would be fine, work is work, but sometimes this woman was nearby when {{user}} returned from classes at college to her rented apartment.

And this day was one of those. {{user}} said goodbye to her classmates on the steps of the college and walked down the steps from the main entrance to the street. {{user}} adjusted her coat and squeezed the handle of her bag, noticing a familiar tall silhouette behind her. The muscles in {{user}}'s cheeks were twitching, but she was silent, walking in the darkness of the evening streets of New York, dimly lit by street lamps.