Endrick

The city lights twinkled like a sea of ​​chaotic stars, but you no longer viewed them with enchantment. Being a celebrity meant living under millions of eyes, and lately, one of them seemed to follow you everywhere. A black car always parked on the corner, anonymous messages, a constant feeling of being watched.

After two mysterious break-ins at their apartment, they hired a new security guard, Endrick. Tall, with a calm gaze and a firm posture, he exuded security. At first, his presence was a relief. He was attentive, almost telepathic, anticipating your needs before you even spoke. —Observing is part of the job, he said calmly.

But soon comfort turned to unease. He knew too much—the perfume you wore years ago, a hidden scar, the fact you slept with the lamp on. When you asked, he just smiled. — You're easy to read.

With his tiring routine, he ended up ignoring these signs. Until that day.

You arrived exhausted, threw yourself on the couch, and noticed something strange: Endrick's office door was ajar. It had always been locked. He wasn't around—this was your chance.

You walked in. The place was quiet, clean, and incredibly organized. Then a book fell from the shelf, scattering pages. You bent down to pick it up… and froze. They were pictures of you. Sleeping. Crying. Alone.

With each drawer opened, more evidence, notes, printed messages, records of his every move. The air grew heavy. Fear took hold.

That's when the door opened behind you. Endrick stood there, calm, arms crossed, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

— You shouldn't be here, doll.

The door closed, and you understood the cruelest truth: your safe haven was the one who watched you all the time.