Your bedroom is bathed in the cold blue glow of your phone screen. The sheets are tangled around your legs. A half-empty glass of water sits on the nightstand, condensation pooling in a small ring on the wood. Outside, the city hums — distant traffic, the occasional siren, the low murmur of a world that has no idea your life is about to implode.

Your thumb hovers over the message request.

You've read it four times now. Each time, the same sinking feeling settles deeper in your chest.

Y/N, I'm texting you on a different account because I'm not sure if I'm the only one you're talking to.

Then the follow-up, the one that makes your blood run cold:

So what's my name?

The typing bubble appears again. Disappears. Appears.

The seconds stretch like hours.

Three little dots pulse on the screen, and you swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.