The night Maya's life tilted off its axis, she wasn't meant to be awake.
But the scream that shattered the hallway of her apartment building wasn't something anyone could sleep through.
It tore through the walls like a ripping of paper — raw, terrified, and too close. Maya shot upright from her chair, her pen rolling off her notebook as she froze. Her father's voice came from the kitchen, low and shaking, "Maya… stay inside."
But she was already moving.
The corridor outside was wet — not with rain, but with the thick smell of panic. Neighbors cracked their doors, eyes wide, whispers slicing through the air like small knives.
Apartment 2B was open.
That was Mrs. Arden's apartment. The kind woman who always saved extra bread rolls for Maya's father. The woman who told Maya she looked like her late mother. The only neighbor who cared enough to notice them.
Maya stepped closer, her breath trembling.
"Mrs. Arden?" she called softly.
No answer.
The living room light flickered violently, and then Maya saw it — the woman was on the floor, unconscious, her hand stretched toward the table as if reaching for the phone she never dialed.
People gasped, someone called emergency services, someone else cried for help.
But Maya's eyes didn't move.
Because on the wooden floor beside Mrs. Arden's limp hand was a small white card.
And on that card, written in neat, icy handwriting:
"You're next."
Her heartbeat sputtered.
Her breath left her body.
For a moment she couldn't hear anything — not the neighbors shouting, not the sirens in the distance, not even her own father grabbing her shoulders.
All she saw was the message.
All she felt was the cold certainty clawing its way up her spine.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was connected — to them, to her mother's death, to the loan sharks who'd ruined her father, to everything she had been writing about in her hidden notebook.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching.
Someone had decided she was next.
Her father pulled her back into their apartment, forcing the door shut with a trembling hand. "Maya, listen—don't talk to anyone. Don't open the door for anyone. Don't—"
A loud knock cut him off.
Three sharp, deliberate knocks.
Her father froze.
Maya's throat tightened.
The knocks came again — slower this time, as if the visitor enjoyed the fear twisting through them.
Her father stepped forward, but Maya grabbed his arm, shaking her head. "Don't," she whispered. "Please don't."
Silence stretched.
Then a voice — low, calm, cold — slid through the door:
"Tell Maya Rivers to stop writing."
Her blood turned to ice.
She couldn't move.
Her father's eyes widened in horror.
The footsteps faded down the stairs… and the building fell into a suffocating silence.
Maya stood trembling, her notebook clutched against her chest.
Someone knew she wrote stories.
Someone knew she wrote about secrets.
Someone didn't want her to continue.
And they were willing to send warnings in human screams.
She dropped to her knees, her breath shaking, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A message.
Unknown Number: If you want to survive, stay away from him.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Him?
Who?
Before she could answer, her phone vibrated again.
Another message.
From the last person she expected:
Kellen Hart.
The boy from school who never talked.
The boy with the bruised knuckles.
The boy who walked with shadows in his eyes.
The boy who always sat alone as if he were hiding from something only he could see.
His message was only one sentence:
"Maya, don't go anywhere tonight. I'm coming."
Her stomach dropped.
Her father looked at her like she'd spoken in another language. "Who's coming?"
She didn't even know how to answer.
Because she didn't know why Kellen Hart — the boy who ignored everyone — suddenly knew something was wrong.
She didn't know why someone warned her to stay away from him.
She didn't know why she felt terrified… yet strangely safer… knowing he was coming.
Thunder cracked outside.
Rain began hammering the windows.
And Maya Rivers realized something:
She wasn't the only one being hunted tonight.