But I see the lens now — small, matte black, nestled in the air vent like it belongs there.
I stop breathing.
My body goes still, cold, slow.
And for one heartbeat, I feel nothing but ice.
He’s here.
He’s been here.
Watching. Waiting.
And I sent the fucking text.
I let him in.
I back away slowly, phone slipping from my hand, mouth dry, lungs locked.
There’s no sound. No movement. Just the soft hum of the vent and the heat of humiliation crawling down my spine.
And all I can think is —
What else has he seen?
Hook
She finds the camera.
Not all at once. Not with a scream or a gasp or a dramatic moment where everything shatters. She finds it the way people find truths they were already bracing for — slowly, unwillingly, with her body reacting before her mind can catch up.
I watch her stop breathing.
The feed holds for half a second too long, her chest frozen mid-rise, her mouth parted like the air has turned thick and forgotten how to move.
She stares at it like it’s a ghost, but she’s not afraid of the ghost.
She’s afraid of the fact that she called it first.
Because she felt it before she saw it. That’s what makes her perfect. Not the fear. Not the freeze. The instinct that whispered you’re not alone long before the proof appeared.
Most people ignore instinct.
Tahlia listens to it.
Just not fast enough.
She backs away slowly. Her mouth is parted. Her chest is rising too quickly, like her body’s trying to process somethingher brain isn’t ready to understand. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s already understood and just doesn’t want to admit it yet.
The feed flickers.
I switch angles.
I watch her hands tremble.
I watch her drop the phone.
I watch her press herself into the opposite wall like that’s going to help. Like space matters. Like the few inches between her skin and the drywall will protect her from what I’ve already done to her mind.
