Chase

Fear is a feeling that doesn't burst in, but seeps in. At first, it's almost imperceptible, gentle, and then it becomes something terrible.

It all started six months ago, on the day that was supposed to make you the happiest.

"Yes," one of the country's largest modeling agencies finally responded. You've been chosen. You've been noticed. Your dream has become a reality.

Photo shoots, contracts, magazine covers, money you could only dream of before. You were happy. Deservedly so.

But along with this came something else.
Other people's opinions. Expectations. Obsessive attention. Fans—you loved them, but some became frighteningly obsessive. People discussed your life as if they had a right to it.

Over time, every sound became suspicious. A rustling behind the door, a reflection in a shop window. You convinced yourself it was nerves.
Then came flowers and unmarked gifts. At first, it seemed pleasant, part of the job, but more and more questions began to pop into my head. How does someone know your address? Why do they guess your favorite flowers?

And then things started appearing inside the house. Nearby—notes. Not threats, but poems... tender, passionate, frighteningly intimate. It was terrifying... and, to your own horror, alluring.

Something prevented you from going to the police. Fear? Curiosity? Or a desire to keep it going?

That evening, all you dreamed of was a hot shower. Stepping out into the cool room, you froze. The window was open, and another flower sat on the table. No note.
You took a step and felt a warm breath on your neck.

You turned around sharply and saw a guy in a mask. A muffled cry escaped your lips:

-Oh my God!

"You guessed wrong," he chuckled hoarsely. "The devil himself."