*Adeline's POV*:
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I stared at the black feather for what felt like hours.
It was absurd. Who even *does* that? This wasn't a mob movie. This was real life. *My* life. And someone out there—probably Seraphina Vale or someone hired by her—was playing some twisted psychological game.
I tucked the feather back into the envelope and shoved it into my bag.
But the damage was done. The walls of the newsroom, once a place of buzzing excitement, now felt like they were closing in on me. I could feel the stares, the cautious glances exchanged when they thought I wasn't looking. Rumors spread fast, and threats—even unspoken ones—spread faster.
I couldn't focus on work. My articles were sloppy. I missed a deadline. Asher tried to help, offered to buy me lunch, distract me with dumb YouTube videos, but I wasn't myself—and he knew it.
That afternoon, as I walked out of the office, the sky cracked open with rain like the universe was mocking me. I didn't have an umbrella, so I just let it soak me. I was already unraveling. What was a little more discomfort?
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. Unknown number.
I hesitated, then picked up.
"Adeline," a deep, smooth voice said. "You should really look both ways before crossing the street."
My heart slammed against my ribs. I spun around, searching—panicked. No one looked out of place. No one was watching. No one should've known I'd just stepped off the curb.
I didn't say a word. I hung up and sprinted into the nearest shop, pretending to browse until my hands stopped shaking.
Who was it?
No. This voice was different. Calmer. Colder. Intimate.
(Serephina vale isn't a character in this book).
Back at my apartment, soaked and paranoid, I checked every lock twice. I even dragged a chair in front of the door. Sleep wasn't an option. I lay awake with the feather clutched in one hand and pepper spray in the other.
At some point, I began to cry—not from fear. From exhaustion. From the creeping dread that no one was going to save me. That this wasn't a chapter of chaos I'd escape from.
This was the new normal.
Or so I thought…
Until I saw him again.
I saw someone who had familiar sollutte to the guy who saved me , he was watching me , that felt uncomfortable. But I didn't want to think of it giving what I was going through.
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One night, around 2 a.m., I woke up drenched in sweat. I was sure I'd heard breathing—*not mine.* But the apartment was quiet. Still, I couldn't go back to sleep. I sat on the couch with a baseball bat in hand, jumping at every sound of the wind brushing against the window.
I started keeping the lights on. All of them. All night.
I kept telling myself: it's just serephina trying to scare you. You'll expose her. She's grasping at straws. But that voice in my head was getting quieter, harder to believe.
Especially when I began seeing *him* more frequently.
Not clearly. Just shadows. Glimpses. He'd stand across the street, under a streetlamp, then vanish before I could blink. Once, I saw a man on the subway platform, eyes trained on me, unmoving while everyone else bustled past. Another time, someone brushed my shoulder in the crowd and I heard it—barely a whisper—
"Soon."
And then he was gone.
My stalker was no longer hiding.
He was playing with me.
He wanted me to fall apart.
And I was.
My friend noticed. Asher begged me to talk. My editor threatened to suspend me if I didn't get it together. But how do you explain this kind of fear? How do you tell people you're being hunted by a man who claims to be your savior?
Who steps in to protect you one moment… and watches you unravel the next?
I couldn't tell anyone.
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At first, it was just a feeling.
You know the one—where your skin prickles like it's remembering something your mind hasn't caught up with yet. Where the hairs on your neck stand up, even though you're alone in a room. I'd be at my desk, typing up a piece, and suddenly I'd freeze—because I could feel it.
Eyes on me.
Watching. Studying. Waiting.
I'd turn sharply. Nothing.
I started catching glimpses in reflective surfaces. A blur in the building's glass exterior. A flash of dark clothing behind the crowd as I crossed the street. A presence that never stayed long enough to be identified—just long enough to rattle me.
The paranoia wasn't staying at home anymore. It was following me everywhere.
I stopped going to the office as often. When I did, I kept my back to the wall, my eyes on every reflection, every hallway corner. My coworkers thought I was spiraling—and maybe I was—but I couldn't explain it without sounding insane.
Even Asher started getting nervous. "You haven't slept properly in days, Addie," he said one morning, placing a coffee in front of me. "Are you sure this isn't all in your head?"
I wanted to believe it was. God, I *wanted* to.
Until the pictures arrived.
They were slipped under my door in an unmarked envelope. Just five of them.
The first was me in the office lobby.
The second—me on my balcony in a robe, coffee cup in hand.
The third—me walking home, earbuds in, smiling at something on my phone.
The fourth—me sleeping.
And the fifth… me standing in the kitchen, staring at a reflection in the window.
I dropped them like they burned me.
The image in the glass was a figure in the dark—hood up, standing still. Watching.
I never saw him. Not in real life.
But *he* saw *me*.
There was no note. No threat. Just the photos. Proof. A message written in silence.
I was being hunted.
Not just followed. *Watched.*
I tore through the apartment, checking every window, every lock. I called the landlord again. I didn't tell him why. I just asked if anyone had keys. He said no. He said I was being paranoid.
And maybe I was. But paranoia doesn't come with proof.
I slept with a knife under my pillow that night.
But I didn't sleep.
Because even behind closed eyes, I could feel it—
Someone was watching me.
And worse?
They didn't want to hurt me Or so I thought?
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