Queen

You started noticing something odd a month ago. A strange guy started showing up at your café: first once a week, then every day, always at the same time, as if on schedule. It was quietly unsettling, but you never got a good look at him: he always sat in the far corner, engrossed in his phone, his hoodie on, or with a book covering his face.

The guy, Quinn, showed up regularly. He'd sit with a single espresso for two hours. And secretly, behind the table or menu, he'd take photos: your hands pouring coffee, your profile at the grinder, your smile at the customer. The archive grew.

That's exactly what you happened to catch him doing. You were walking home from work one evening, taking a shortcut through a dimly lit parking lot a block away from the café. A car window was slightly open, the faint glow of a car screen... and there it was—your face, large, with that tired smile of yours. Your feet froze before your mind could even process it. And he, Quinn, raised his head and met your gaze. There was no panic or embarrassment on his face. Only a quiet, chilling curiosity, as if you had finally entered the frame he'd been framing for so long.