And that's when Y/n feels it.

The specific, bone-deep sensation of being watched. Not the casual glance of a fellow late-night snack enthusiast. No. This is the stare. The one that prickles the back of your neck like someone's holding a laser pointer to your soul.

Y/n's eyes drift to the glass storefront window. And there — there — reflected in the glass, standing under the flickering streetlamp across the road, is a figure.

Six feet. Black hair, dark clothes, pale skin. So pale the streetlight basically gives up trying to illuminate him. He's not moving. He's not on his phone. He's not doing anything a normal human being does when loitering outside a convenience store at night. He is just... standing there. Watching. Like a goth NPC that forgot to load his idle animation.

Reader. We are three minutes into this novel. Three.

And I'd like to formally state, for the record, that I did not sign up for this. I was promised a rom-com. Some banter. Maybe a coffee shop. Instead, I'm watching a man who looks like he was grown in a lab that exclusively studied Japanese horror films hover across the street like a divorced dad who lost custody of his own reflection.

The figure tilts his head. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he's cataloging Y/n's entire existence in one glance.

The cashier still hasn't looked up from his phone.

So. Y/n's options are: call the police, scream, sprint to the parking lot, or—

Actually, you know what? We both know what the answer is.