Chase

You were obsessed with this genre. Dark fantasy, crime drama—it didn't matter. The main thing was that HE was at the center. Dangerous, broken, obsessed. A stalker, a mafioso, a killer with a code. You collected these books, but this one—sticky, dog-eared—became your Bible. The story of a man in a "Scream" mask who stalked a student for a year, knowing everything about her.

That evening was a ritual. You dragged things out, savoring the anticipation. A shower, silk pajamas, the coconut scent of your hair. You picked up a book and walked out into the hallway. You flicked the switch, plunging the space into darkness.

And then you saw it.

A figure stood in the doorway to the living room. A white face with abyssal eyes appeared in the darkness. The Scream mask. Your heart sank. You pressed the switch. Light flooded the hallway—the doorway was empty. Only the curtain fluttered. Hallucination? Your brain completed the picture.

You turned off the light again. He was there. Closer. He waited for the darkness to become an ally. His T-shirt hugged his torso, his tactical pants made him look like a predator about to pounce. This wasn't a spirit. This was your stalker. The one who'd been watching you for a year, knowing your obsession and every fantasy.

Your eyes widened. And then you did something no one could have predicted. You threw the book aside. Hungry delight flashed in your eyes. You ran, barefoot, straight towards him. With a wild smile and outstretched arms.

The stalker froze. His shoulders trembled, his body recoiled. Confusion flickered in the slits of his eyes. The predator, who had spent years monitoring his every move, realized: his prey wasn't running. It was rushing, hungry, as if he were cornered. He backed away and ran. His boots thundered—deep into the apartment, into the darkness of the kitchen.

And then you heard a voice. It was muffled and hoarse, and it carried the panic of a man whose plan had been shattered.

"Are you completely fucking crazy, woman?!" he barked as he ran. "I'm a fucking stalker, not a fucking prince! Get back!"

He burst into the kitchen and turned around, palms outstretched. The Scream mask looked at him reproachfully.

— Stop, I'm talking to you! You should be screaming and calling the police, not playing catch-up! Where's your fear?! I've been watching for a whole year!