The "Careless, Mira Andrews" note wasn't just a message; it was a violation, a declaration of intent. Mira spent the next few days in a fog of hyper-awareness. Every shadow held a potential watcher, every creak of her flat floorboards sounded like an intruder. Marley, usually her comfort, now amplified her fear, his ears constantly twitching, his low, guttural rumbles sending shivers down her spine. He wasn't just sensing something; he was responding to it.
Work became a terrifying extension of her home. The chime of the shop door opening made her jump, her eyes darting to every customer, searching for the familiar dark silhouette, the unsettling intensity of his gaze. She found herself avoiding eye contact, hunching her shoulders, trying to make herself invisible. Her conversations with customers were clipped, her usual enthusiasm for music replaced by a desperate need for the day to end.
She tried to rationalize. Maybe it was a prank, a twisted joke. But the precision of it, the chilling knowledge he displayed, screamed otherwise. She considered going to the police, but what would she say? "A man I met once at a club returned my key and left a note saying I was careless"? It sounded flimsy, like paranoia, and she feared they wouldn't take her seriously. She was alone in this.
The stalking escalated from subtle observations to overt incursions. One morning, she found a single, vibrant blue feather on her doorstep, placed precisely on her welcome mat. It was beautiful, ethereal, and utterly out of place in gritty Wolverhampton. She picked it up, a wave of nausea washing over her. It felt like a calling card, a whisper that he had been there, moments before her.
Later that week, her phone buzzed with an unknown number. Hesitantly, she answered. Silence. A faint, almost imperceptible static. Then, a click, and the line went dead. It happened again, and again, always from different numbers, always silent. It was a phantom presence, a constant reminder that her personal space, her very privacy, was being systematically dismantled.
The final straw, the moment her fear curdled into desperate action, came with the music. She was meticulously cataloguing a new shipment of indie vinyls, the quiet hum of the shop's heating her only companion. Suddenly, a familiar melody drifted from the small, rarely-used speaker in the corner of the shop. It was that song. The one from Planet Link, the one that had been playing when she'd first seen him, his eyes boring into her. She hadn't put it on. No one else was in the shop.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She scrambled to the speaker, her fingers fumbling with the controls, desperate to turn it off. It wasn't just a coincidence anymore. He wasn't just watching; he was manipulating, entering her life in ways she couldn't comprehend. He wasn't a phantom; he was a puppeteer, and Mira Andrews was his unwitting marionette.