The morning didn't arrive—it bled into the room like a wound. Pale and colorless. My sheets were soaked in sweat, but I wasn't sure if it was from a nightmare or just the residue of what happened the night before.
My fingers twitched toward the phone even before my thoughts caught up.
Still no ID. No name.
Only a number that changed every time. Only the words that stayed the same.
At 5:06 a.m., another message:
"Still dreaming of me?"
I didn't answer.
I scrolled through the old messages instead, rereading them like they were scripture. They never came from the same number, never repeated themselves exactly. But the tone—the voice—was always his.
Cold. Obsessive. Brilliantly cruel.
"You wear my name like perfume. Invisible, unforgettable. Do you still feel me beneath your skin?"
I did.
Even when I closed my eyes, even when I scrubbed my skin until it turned raw—I still felt the name. Elijah Darko.
Except... he wasn't real. Was he?
That was the madness of it.
Because he existed and didn't exist at the same time.
I didn't know what he looked like. I didn't know if the man from the bar—the rat I cornered in the hallway—was even part of Elijah's plan or just a pawn who thought he was the king. What I knew was this: someone had been following me. Watching me. Pretending to be him.
And I had let myself believe it. I had wanted to believe it.
Now I wasn't so sure.
I checked the security camera footage I installed last month—just shadows. Always one step behind.
But today… today I needed answers.
I sat at the table, phone in one hand, cold coffee in the other. My laptop glared up at me like it pitied me. I typed his name again.
Elijah Darko.
Search. Scroll. Refresh.
Nothing concrete. Rumors in chatrooms. Redacted files. A few photos that never showed a clear face. Some said he was a ghost in the intelligence community. Some said he was a cult leader. Others claimed he was just a myth used by powerful men to cover their tracks.
But I knew better.
I was living proof he was real. Because someone kept sending those messages. Someone who knew too much.
Then—another ping.
New number. Same rhythm.
"He called me last night."
I froze.
The words hung there, chilling the air around me.
"Said: I've finished. She thinks I'm you. That made me laugh. You think you know me?"
My pulse quickened. My hands shook, but I held the phone tighter.
"You want truth? Start with the lies. Start with yourself."
He was playing with me. Always.
"I'm not the man from last night," he added. "I'm the one who sent him."
I set the phone down like it might bite me.
I didn't know what scared me more—that he was telling the truth… or that I wanted him to be.
My mind played it back. The bar. The hallway. The false confidence in that stranger's voice when he said, "I was just following orders."
Elijah's orders.
But why?
What did he want from me?
A name on skin, a mind to twist, a heart to rip open and rewire?
Why me?
I clicked into encrypted forums. Alias networks. Whispers of the name "Darko" scattered in digital corners like ash. Each thread looped back on itself. Every source disappeared the moment I found it.
And then—a new message.
"You think you're looking for me. But you're really looking for yourself."
I threw the phone across the room.
It didn't break. Of course not. That would be too easy.
I slumped to the floor, my breathing jagged.
How had I gotten here?
How had a name—a ghost—become my obsession?
I remembered the first time he messaged me. Two months ago. I had woken up to a red lipstick mark on the bathroom mirror and the words, "You're mine." No fingerprints. No forced entry. Just those two things.
The police called it a prank.
I called it the beginning.
And now here I was. No closer to answers. Just circling the same flame, waiting to burn.
The doorbell rang.
I froze.
Twice. Then silence.
I grabbed the knife from the kitchen drawer and crept to the door, peering through the peephole.
No one.
But something lay on the floor.
I opened the door just enough to reach down and grab it. A black envelope. No name. No return address.
Inside: a single Polaroid.
Me. From last night. At the bar.
I was laughing.
But I don't remember laughing.
My heart thundered. I flipped the photo.
Scrawled in red ink: "You look better when you forget you're scared."
I slammed the door and locked every bolt.
He was here. Watching. Again.
My phone buzzed. I didn't want to look. But I did.
"You thought the boy was me. You thought the rat was the king."
Then another:
"Cute mistake. But I don't mind. I like watching you chase shadows. It makes your red lips even redder."
I stood in front of the mirror, holding the Polaroid in one hand, phone in the other.
And then I whispered, "Who are you?"
No answer.
Just silence. And then…
"Look closer."
That was all.
The message hit harder than any scream.
Because deep down, I wanted to know. I wanted to look. To keep looking.
Even if it meant I'd lose myself in the process.
Even if he was never meant to be found.
---
**