The fluorescent lights buzzed with a mocking cheer as Ethan shuffled through his day. Every office drone seemed oblivious, their happy chatter a cruel contrast to the churning dread in his gut. That damn sketchbook. Those drawings. They were like a brand seared into his brain – proof he was being stalked.
Lunch with Laura was a joke. Sure, she listened, but her concern couldn't mask the growing unease in Ethan's chest. "Police are investigating," she'd said. "Investigating what? My paranoia?" The answer did nothing to quell the cold terror slithering up his spine.
Back at his desk, Ethan slammed his fist down, the sound swallowed by the office din. No clue who it was. No way to stop it. He was a prisoner in his own life, every glance over his shoulder a desperate search for his unseen jailer.
The ride home was a tense vigil. Every rustle of leaves, every flicker of a streetlamp, sent his heart into overdrive. Finally, his apartment. Safe? Not a chance. The silence screamed in his ears, broken only by the frantic hammering of his own pulse.
The phone. An unknown number. Hope flared, then died as a distorted voice slithered through the receiver. "You can't hide, Ethan." He roared into the phone, a primal scream lost in the dead air. The line went dead, leaving a hollow echo of his own helplessness.
Ethan wasn't afraid anymore. He was furious. This wasn't some movie – this was his life, his freedom, being ripped away by a unseen monster. He wouldn't be a victim. He'd fight back. Find this sicko. Stop them. Tonight, fear took a back seat. Tonight, vengeance rode shotgun.