James leaned against the brick wall outside the gym, his breath escaping in shallow puffs that merged with the chilly night air. The city's sounds seemed muted, as though the world had taken a step back, leaving him alone with the uneasy drumming of his heartbeat. His gym bag weighed heavily on his shoulder, though the real burden sat squarely in his mind.
The note had been short, cruelly simple: "You're next." Four words scrawled in hurried handwriting, black ink bleeding into the cheap paper. He had found it taped to his locker after yesterday's workout. No name, no context—just the chilling promise.
Now, every shadow seemed to twist into a figure, every whisper of wind carried malice. He shook his head, trying to brush off the paranoia, but it clung to him like a second skin.
The gym parking lot stretched before him, dimly lit by flickering streetlights. James squinted into the darkness. His pulse quickened as he thought he saw movement near a parked sedan. He stopped mid-step, his ears straining for any sound. Nothing. Just the hum of distant traffic and the rhythmic buzz of the streetlamp overhead.
You're imagining things. He repeated the mantra in his head as he forced his legs forward. The crunch of gravel beneath his sneakers sounded unnaturally loud.
As he approached his car, he glanced over his shoulder. The lot appeared empty, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers trembling, and finally managed to unlock the driver's side door. He slid inside, locking the doors with a decisive click before throwing his gym bag onto the passenger seat.
The note had been playing on a loop in his mind all day. Who had left it? Was it a prank? Or worse, a genuine threat? He hadn't told anyone—not his friends, not the police, not his sister, not even the gym staff. What would he say? "Hey, I think someone's out to get me because of a mysterious note?" They'd laugh it off or, worse, pity him.
But he had tried reaching out to his friends, desperate for some semblance of clarity.He called Alison first. She had always been the level-headed one, the person who could pick apart a problem with surgical precision. But when her voice came through the line, it was hurried, distracted.
"James, I can't talk now," she said. "I'm kinda busy and I'm trying to piece things together and get myself out of this ridiculous mess, not forgetting my studies too. Can we catch up later?"
Before he could protest, she had hung up.
Next, he tried Kyro. His friend had a knack for finding patterns where others saw chaos. If anyone could help him figure out the meaning of the note, it would be Kyro. But the call went straight to voicemail. James left a message, though he doubted he'd get a response anytime soon.
Kyro had been obsessing over Micha's murder on campus, trying to link it with the death of Zade Watson. He convinced he was on the brink of uncovering the killer, and that their deaths are too coincidental to be ignored.
Finally, he dialed Amber. She picked up after a few rings, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "James, I'm in the middle of something."
"Amber, it's important," he insisted. "I got this note…"
"I'm sorry," she interrupted, "but I can't focus on that right now. Everything is crazy right now, James. If this killer isn't caught soon…" Her voice trailed off before she muttered an apology and ended the call.
James's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he backed out of the parking space. He scanned the rearview mirror. The darkness seemed denser than usual, swallowing the edges of his vision. He pulled onto the main road, forcing himself to focus on the drive.
But the unease didn't fade. In fact, it grew sharper. Every time he glanced in his mirrors, he swore he saw the faint outline of a car following him. A black sedan. Or was it dark gray? He couldn't be sure. The vehicle always seemed just far enough to avoid being identified, yet close enough to keep him on edge.
James turned abruptly onto a side street, his heart pounding as he tried to see if the car would follow. It didn't. Relief washed over him, but only briefly. He drove in loops, taking random turns and doubling back, as though he could outsmart an invisible pursuer. By the time he reached his apartment, his nerves were frayed.
The building loomed before him, its familiar silhouette offering little comfort. He parked and sat in the car for a moment, staring at the shadowy entrance. Gathering his courage, he stepped out, his eyes darting to every corner of the lot. The air felt heavy, oppressive.
He hurried inside, locking the door behind him as soon as he entered his apartment. The silence within felt deafening. He checked every room, every closet, and under the bed. Nothing was out of place, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't alone.
James collapsed onto the couch, his head in his hands. He tried to rationalize his fear. Maybe it was just a cruel joke. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. But deep down, he knew—something wasn't right.
The sound of a creaking floorboard made him freeze. His head snapped up, eyes wide as he scanned the room. The apartment remained still, the only sound now the pounding of his heart.
He stood slowly, every muscle tensed, and moved toward the source of the noise. His hand hovered over the lamp on the end table, ready to grab it as a weapon. He took a deep breath and swung the bedroom door open.
Nothing.
James let out a shaky laugh, relief flooding him. But as he turned back to the living room, he noticed something that made his blood run cold. A faint smudge on the window, a handprint too high to have been left by him.
Someone had been watching.