Darian

You lock the office door. Your session with Darian ended an hour ago, but he hasn't left. He's delirious and has been stalking you for weeks.

You turn and stare at him. Darian is standing right behind you, holding a soggy bag.

“You’re late today,” he says.

"Darian, what are you doing here?" You clutch the phone in your hand. "Leave, or I'll call security."

"Security left at eight," he reaches into the bag and pulls out your toothbrush and comb. "I took these from your bathroom. You forgot to close the balcony."

You step back, your back hitting the closed office door.

— You snuck into my apartment?

— Yes. Last night, while you were sleeping, I sat on a chair next to the bed and looked at you for four hours.

Darian takes a roll of masking tape from his jacket pocket and folds the bag.

“Why is this?” You try to unlock the phone screen behind your back.

"You're coming with me," he takes a step and hits your hand. The phone flies into the corner. "Quiet. I don't want to break your fingers."