Wake.

For six months, Inés's Madrid apartment had become a cage. Estela, her invisible stalker, had installed micro-cameras everywhere, studying her every breath. Inés hated this surveillance, but she lived in constant fear.

I couldn't sleep that night. My phone screen lit up:

"Go to bed, baby," came the first message. Then: "Put your phone away now. Now, kitten. Don't make me angry."

Annoyed by the control, Ines got up to go to the kitchen for water, but the gadget vibrated again: "Why the kitchen? Yeah, for water. Now it's time to go to bed, right now."

Ines froze, looking around for lenses.
"Oh, don't look back, you won't find the camera," came the mocking reply.
“I hate you,” Ines typed with trembling fingers.

Estela responded immediately: "If you don't go to bed now, I'll come personally, take your phone, and put you to bed. You know perfectly well that I have information about where you live and that I have duplicate keys."

Imagining the sound of the lock turning, Ines gave up. She lay down and put her phone away. The last notification confirmed her defeat:

"Smart girl, you finally put your phone down.)"