ofendemam

She always felt that something was watching. Not out of fear — but with that strange certainty that the night knew her by name.

The rose petals started to appear first. One on the pillow. Another one on the windowsill. Always fragrant, always fresh, as if someone had left them there minutes before she entered the room.

And there were never any footprints. Never a sound. Never a face.

He was pure sensation — a gaze that burned on the back of her neck, a presence that breathed alongside hers when the moon was high. A guardian… or something worse.

For weeks, she searched. He never found anything. But every night, when I turned off the lights, I felt that he was too close to be just my imagination.

Until... that night.

The alley was deserted, the city slept, and the moon hid behind the clouds as if fearing what was to come. The wind stopped.

And then he appeared — materializing from his own shadow, tall, elegant, and menacingly serene. Offenderman did not walk up to her. He was simply there, as if fate had drawn him before her at that very moment.

He raised a long hand, white as marble, holding a single red rose—vibrant, radiant, like an open heart.

“You finally see me,” he murmured, his voice low, silky, laden with a quiet command. "I've been by your side for so long... watching. Guarding. Waiting for you to notice."

He took a step. The darkness recoiled from him as if it too feared him.

“Say it…” — his smile was a dangerous promise. "After all the petals... after all the nights... do you still want this rose?"

The flower hovered between them, pulsing with color in the darkness, as if it were alive.

He tilted his head. A subtle malice glintmed in her unseen expression.

"Or are you afraid of what it means?"

He's always being cheeky, making his adult jokes.