I felt it before I saw it.
That prickling along the back of my neck—the kind of awareness that crawls in like a whisper and settles into your bones. I've learned not to ignore it. Especially now, when the line between obsession and danger has thinned to something nearly erotic.
He's watching me.
Or maybe it's not he. Maybe it's they. Or maybe it's just me, feeding on paranoia like a drug. But no. This is real. I can feel the weight of his gaze like a thumb pressing into my spine.
I push through the bar's entrance with a breath of perfume and lies. The air inside is thick with smoke, sweat, and desperation. The music is too loud and the lights too low—perfect. This place is a graveyard of broken promises, and tonight, I'm the ghost.
I don't look over my shoulder. That's how you lose the game. Instead, I head straight for the bar and choose a stool with a view of the exit. It's deliberate. I want him to know I'm not afraid. I want him to think I'm careless.
I order gin this time. Sharp. Clean. Bitter—like me.
My lips are painted the same shade of red they always are. It's become my signature, my weapon. People underestimate the power of red. But red is the color of danger. Of desire. Of war.
I sip slowly, pretending not to scan the mirror behind the bar.
There. Third table from the left. A man pretending to read a menu he's already folded twice. Sunglasses inside. Rookie move. But the tension in his jaw gives him away.
I smile against my glass.
The rat just got caught.
He doesn't know I've clocked him. He thinks he's the hunter. That's almost adorable.
I let a few minutes pass. Then I stand, deliberately slow, as if I'm just a bored woman on a Thursday night, not a lie built on stiletto heels. My reflection catches in the mirror. Red lips, black eyes, and no soul left to mourn.
I walk toward the bathroom. Not to fix my makeup—I never need to—but because I know he'll follow.
And he does.
I hear the shift in weight. The pause. Then footsteps. Light, but not light enough.
He's new at this.
The hallway to the bathroom is narrow, dimly lit. Perfect for shadows to whisper secrets.
I reach the end, pretend to fumble for something in my clutch, and wait.
He's five steps away when I speak. Calm. Even. Deadly.
"You're not very good at this."
Silence.
Then—"I don't know what you mean."
I turn slowly, my smile slicing through the dark.
"You fold your menu twice. You didn't even touch your drink. And you think sunglasses make you invisible."
He shifts. I see the twitch in his throat, the way he fights the urge to reach for whatever's under his jacket.
I take a step closer. He doesn't move.
"I'm not the one you want to stalk," I whisper. "Because I don't run. I hunt."
He opens his mouth, probably to lie. But I'm faster.
"I know you were at the ballroom."
That gets him.
A flicker of fear.
I don't stop.
"You weren't there for fun. You were watching me then, too."
"I wasn't—"
I step into his space. "Lie again, and I'll carve the truth out of you with a smile."
His breath hitches. He looks at me like I'm not what he expected.
Good.
He finally speaks. "I was just following orders."
I tilt my head. "Whose?"
He hesitates.
I laugh, low and dangerous. "You don't know, do you? You're just another rat chasing breadcrumbs."
I lean in. "Tell your handler this: I bite."
He starts to speak, but I press a manicured finger to his lips—red, of course.
"Shhh. That's enough for tonight."
I turn and walk into the bathroom. Leave him standing there, stunned, confused, and already forgotten.
Inside, I lock the door and stare into the mirror. My heart is pounding now, but I don't let it show. I pull out my lipstick, reapply with practiced grace, and smile.
They're following me now.
Good.
That means the game has begun.
And I never lose.
Let's prolong the scene by blending both directions: we'll escalate to a new, more dangerous confrontation and slip into a flashback that hints at the ballroom's dark secret. Here's the continuation in your same intense, first-person tone:
---
The music outside the bathroom pulses like a war drum. I press my back against the door, letting the rhythm crawl up my spine, matching the beat of my pulse. I give myself ten more seconds of control before I slip back into the storm.
When I emerge, the hallway is empty. No sign of the boy scout in sunglasses. I expected that. Rats always scatter when the lights come on.
But someone else has taken his place.
He's leaning against the far wall, half-cast in shadow. No sunglasses. No weak jaw. No feigned innocence. Just stillness—so unnaturally calm it makes the air buzz.
And those eyes.
His eyes are the kind you remember from dreams and wish you could forget. Pale and sharp, like a wolf frozen in snow. He doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.
He's not here to watch.
He's here for me.
I step toward him like I'm walking into a blade. "Did you lose your little errand boy?"
He smirks, and it's the kind of smirk that should be illegal in public. "He was never meant to catch you. Just test your reflexes."
"So this is the real show?"
"No," he says, pushing off the wall. "This is just the first taste."
He walks past me, slow, deliberate. His shoulder brushes mine. Not by accident.
A thousand volts explode beneath my skin.
I turn, already knowing he won't look back—but he does.
"See you soon, Red."
Then he's gone.
Not out the door. Not into the bar.
Gone.
Like he was never there.
But I know better. The dangerous ones always leave a mark.
---