Nothing special about the evening. Just you, your small kitchen, the rain tapping against the window above the sink.

But something made you pause. A prickle at the back of your neck. That ancient instinct that says you’re being watched.

You turned.

The window was dark. Rain streaked down the glass. The streetlight cast a weak orange glow on the empty sidewalk.

Nothing there.

You turned back to the stove, told yourself you were being ridiculous.

But your hands trembled as you poured the water.

And outside, in the shadows between two houses, a figure stood perfectly still. Watching.