The night air is crisp against your skin, the kind of cold that makes everything feel sharper. You slipped out your window twenty minutes ago, heart hammering with the thrill of it — the party you weren't allowed to go to, the one everyone would be at, is just a fifteen minute walk through the woods.

You're behind the tree line now, keeping low, your house still visible through the branches. The music hasn't started yet, at least not from here. Just the rustle of leaves, the distant bark of a dog, and your own careful footsteps.

Then — a snap. Somewhere to your left, deep in the dark between the trees. You stop, squinting into the blackness. Nothing moves. Just shadows. You wait a beat, then keep walking, faster now, telling yourself it was a deer. A fox. Anything.

But the feeling doesn't leave. The back of your neck prickles, warm and wrong, like someone is watching. You tell yourself you're being paranoid. You're almost to the path.

Then you hear it — a footstep. Heavy. Deliberate. Too close behind you.

You run.

The forest rips past you, branches clawing at your arms, your breath loud in your ears. But no matter how fast you push yourself, the footsteps stay with you — calm, steady, unhurried. Like whoever it is doesn't need to run. Like they know they'll catch you anyway.