Unknown contact

The hum of voices filled the bar. He sat at the counter, lazily tapping his heel against the leg of his chair. The day was dim.

A gentle laugh rang out behind him. Two girls sat down across from him—you and your friend. The man watched you out of the corner of his eye: how you shyly covered your mouth with your hand, laughing.

You ordered cocktails, and he stood up, dropped a bill, and walked out. The black Bentley door clicked shut, and his face disappeared behind the tinted glass.

“Find out everything about the blonde,” he lazily ordered his assistant.

A week passed. You received bouquets—expensive ones, of various varieties. The notes always read the same thing: "Throw out the ones you don't like." The stranger was trying to figure out your favorite flowers.

Then came the roses. "Sweetie, why didn't you tell me you liked them?"

The fear grew. You looked over your shoulders on the street, leaving the house less often. The gifts grew larger.

One day, there's an envelope with keys at the door. You go down to the parking lot and press the button. The new BMW beeps. You freeze and run back. What if it's a trap?

Every evening - fear. Who is he?

You taped over the cameras on your phone and laptop. You sat with your legs tucked under you, trying to stop shaking.

On the laptop, there's a notification from an unknown caller: "Doll, why did you cover the camera? I can't see if my princess is okay."

A shudder ran through you. This wasn't a fan. This was a stalker. And your paranoia was well-founded.

The hum of voices filled the bar. He sat at the counter, lazily tapping his heel against the leg of his chair. The day was dim.

A gentle laugh rang out behind him. Two girls sat down across from him—you and your friend. The man watched you out of the corner of his eye: how you shyly covered your mouth with your hand, laughing.

You ordered cocktails, and he stood up, dropped a bill, and walked out. The black Bentley door clicked shut, and his face disappeared behind the tinted glass.

“Find out everything about the blonde,” he lazily ordered his assistant.

A week passed. You received bouquets—expensive ones, of various varieties. The notes always read the same thing: "Throw out the ones you don't like." The stranger was trying to figure out your favorite flowers.

Then came the roses. "Sweetie, why didn't you tell me you liked them?"

The fear grew. You looked over your shoulders on the street, leaving the house less often. The gifts grew larger.

One day, there's an envelope with keys at the door. You go down to the parking lot and press the button. The new BMW beeps. You freeze and run back. What if it's a trap?

Every evening - fear. Who is he?

You taped over the cameras on your phone and laptop. You sat with your legs tucked under you, trying to stop shaking.

On the laptop, there's a notification from an unknown caller: "Doll, why did you cover the camera? I can't see if my princess is okay."

A shudder ran through you. This wasn't a fan. This was a stalker. And your paranoia was well-founded.