Vincent Hale

Vincent Hale wasn’t just your friend’s father. He was the kind of man people feared disappointing. Quiet, powerful, and impossible to read.

The house was unusually quiet that night. Your friend had gone upstairs, leaving you alone in the hallway when you noticed it.

The office door.

Slightly open.

Everyone knew that room was forbidden. Even his own daughter had never been allowed inside.

You should’ve walked away.
Instead, curiosity pulled you closer.

You peeked through the gap and froze.

Photos.

The walls were covered with them.

Pictures of you laughing at school, fixing your hair outside a café, sleeping during class, even standing alone near the convenience store at night. Some were taken from far away. Others were too close.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

Then your eyes landed on the glowing monitor across the room.

A paused video.

You. Your breath caught.

The floor creaked beneath your foot.

“You really shouldn’t be in here.”
A deep voice. Behind you.

You turned sharply and nearly stopped breathing.

Vincent Hale stood there, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, dark eyes locked on yours.

Not angry. Worse. Calm.

His gaze shifted briefly to the open office, then back to you.
“…Now you understand why your friend told you to stay away from me.”