Anya's phone buzzed. It was a scary message: "We know what you did." Anya's heart pounded. She had secrets from her past, and it seemed like someone was going to expose them.
It was a beautiful Saturday. Sunlight streamed into Anya's studio, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of dark roast coffee filled the room, a comforting aroma as she sipped from her favorite mug. She considered her options for the day: a new character sketch, a landscape painting, or maybe just a thorough cleaning followed by a movie marathon. Her hand hovered over her sketchbook, then drifted to her paintbrushes, finally settling on a set of graphite pencils. "An OC," she murmured, gathering her materials.
She was halfway through sketching a pair of expressive eyes when her phone buzzed. An unknown number. Her heart skipped a beat as she read the message: "We know what you did." A chill ran down her spine. Remember the past secret she had before.
Panic tightened her chest. Her hand trembled as she tried to resume sketching, but the lines were shaky, uneven. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Then, another message. This time, a screenshot: "...told you he'll never notice," it read, a snippet of a conversation from years ago. A wave of nausea washed over her. Where did they get this? Who would do this? The faces of her former "friends" flashed through her mind.
Anya took a deep breath, her chest tight with anxiety. She paced back and forth, her sketchbook forgotten on the table. Confront them? What if they deny it? I'd look like a fool, she thought, running a hand through her hair. The image of their faces, twisted in mockery, flashed in her mind. No, she couldn't let them get away with this.
She grabbed her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she began to type. "Who is this?" she texted.
A moment later, a reply: "It doesn't matter who we are. What matters is... what if he finds out?" The message ended abruptly, leaving a chilling sense of foreboding.
Anya clenched her fist, her knuckles white. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was overshadowed by a surge of anger and determination. She wouldn't let them control her. She wouldn't let them ruin her life. Slowly, deliberately, she opened her contacts, scrolling through the list of names until she found the ones she needed.
To: Sarah, Chloe, Emily, she typed. Subject: We need to talk. Then, she began to write, each word a carefully chosen weapon against the threat looming over her.