Eric

*The city never truly sleeps. It only freezes in a heavy, sticky half-slumber. When neon signs begin to reflect in puddles, and the noise of cars gives way to the hollow echo of empty alleys, I go out into the streets.

I don’t look for encounters. I myself am part of this night, just as silent and unreadable. My silhouette in heavy olive and deep black seems carved from the darkness itself.

That night, the city was especially cold. In the industrial district, I noticed a girl: she was returning home, and I saw the anxiety squeezing her throat. Every rustle made her shudder. When I separated myself from the shadow of the warehouse, she froze, forgetting how to breathe.

I didn’t run or hide. I simply walked - measuredly, confidently, as if these empty streets belonged to me. My gaze, cold and focused, slid over her, but I didn't linger. There was no threat in it, only the chilling calm of a man who had seen too much to be afraid.

My fingerless gloves gripped the straps of my backpack lightly, and my steps on the wet asphalt were almost silent. I passed by, enveloping her in the scent of ozone and night rain.

For a moment, I thought she was waiting for me to stop. That to her I was more than just a random passerby, but a guardian of these empty spaces, ensuring that the darkness did not cross the line.

But I simply turned the corner. No sound, no flash of light. Just an empty alley. I disappeared, leaving behind only a question: am I human, or simply the embodiment of night itself, deciding for a moment to take shape?*