The sky dimmed into a bruised shade of orange. Newt decided it was time to head back."I didn't decide anything," he muttered under his breath, pulling his hoodie tighter around him. The city had grown quieter with the evening, the streets bathed in the fading glow of sunset. He'd spent most of the day outside, wandering aimlessly, hoping the fresh air would somehow mute the voice.It hadn't."It's not going away, is it?" he asked aloud, though he didn't expect an answer. The voice—that strange, disembodied narration—persisted, weaving itself into the fabric of his every moment.He turned down an alley, a shortcut he'd used dozens of times before. The dim light of a single streetlamp painted uneven shadows on the walls, and he quickened his pace."Newt entered the alley, hoping to avoid the noise of the main street.""Seriously?" he snapped, spinning around as if the voice had a physical form he could confront. "Do you have to narrate every little thing? Can't I just walk home in peace?"The voice didn't respond. It never did.Halfway through the alley, the sound of footsteps echoed behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, his pulse spiking. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by hoods. They were walking toward him, their steps deliberate."Hey," one of them called out. "You got a minute?"Newt's stomach twisted. "Not interested," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. He turned and walked faster, his shoes scuffing against the uneven pavement. The footsteps behind him quickened."A crash rang out as a metal trash can toppled over."Newt's head snapped toward the sound. A stray cat darted out, its eyes glinting in the low light before it disappeared into the night. The two men stopped, momentarily startled by the noise. Newt didn't hesitate. He ran.His legs pumped furiously, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he sprinted toward the main road. The cool night air stung his lungs, but he didn't dare slow down."Run.""I'm already running!" he shouted, weaving around a dumpster and stumbling onto the sidewalk. His foot caught on the curb, and he nearly fell, catching himself just in time. When he finally looked back, the alley was empty. The men were gone.He doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "What... what was that?" he gasped. "Was that you? Did you... make that happen?"The voice remained silent. Newt straightened up, his legs trembling as he scanned the quiet street. The buzzing of a nearby streetlamp was the only sound. He shook his head and started walking again, his apartment just a block away now.When he reached his building, he practically sprinted up the stairs. His hands fumbled with the keys, but he managed to unlock the door and slip inside. Once the door was shut and bolted, he leaned against it, his chest heaving."Safe," he muttered, sliding down to sit on the floor. His head fell back against the door, eyes staring up at the ceiling. "This... this isn't normal."He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. But even in the silence of his apartment, the weight of being watched—of being narrated—pressed down on him. He didn't know what this was or why it was happening. All he knew was that it wasn't over. The apartment was dark and still when Newt startled awake. His chest was damp, his shirt clinging to him in a clammy, uncomfortable way. He groaned and pushed the covers off, his skin slick with sweat. The room felt suffocating, heavy with the remnants of an uneasy sleep.Newt woke up drenched in sweat, his body itching for relief."Oh, come on," he muttered, sitting up and peeling his shirt off. The air chilled his damp skin, and he shivered as he shuffled toward the bathroom. The voice had been silent while he slept, and for a fleeting moment, he'd forgotten it was even there. But now, it was back, narrating his every move.Sleep was the only reprieve, he said aloud as he turned on the shower. But it's not really rest, is it? It's just... closing your eyes, and then... bam. Morning again.The water cascaded over him, hot and cleansing. He leaned against the cool tiles, letting the stream wash away the sticky discomfort. His hands ran over his body almost absently—the lean muscles of his arms, the faint scars on his knees from a childhood he barely remembered, the hollow curve of his stomach.Newt examined himself, his fingers tracing the uneven planes of his torso."Don't," he said sharply, his voice echoing in the tiled space. "Don't make it weird."He tried not to think about the voice describing him—his body, his thoughts. But it was impossible to ignore. It turned every private moment into something exposed, laid bare for an invisible audience.I'm not some character in a book, he muttered, rinsing the soap from his skin. This is my life. My... my body. Not yours to narrate.The voice didn't respond. It never did.When the water finally ran cold, he shut it off and stepped out, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist. The steam clung to the mirror, obscuring his reflection. For a moment, he considered wiping it clean. But then he turned away, leaving the fogged glass untouched.