It was a Tuesday, the kind of gray, weeping Tuesday that seeped into your bones and made your teeth ache. I stood behind the counter of The Grinder, staring at the milk frother as it screamed, a high-pitched shriek that matched the pressure building behind my temples. The air inside the shop smelled of burnt beans, wet wool, and the distinct, metallic tang of despair.
"Non-fat, extra foam, no whip. You're not listening, are you?"
The voice was nasal, sharp enough to cut through the noise of the espresso machine. I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus on the man standing on the other side of the counter. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my entire year's rent, and he looked at me the way one looks at a smudge on a window—something to be annoyed by, then wiped away.
"I heard you," I said. My voice was raspy. I hadn't spoken in two hours. "Non-fat. Extra foam."
"Then why are you holding the whole milk?"
I looked down. My hand was gripping the blue-capped jug so hard the plastic was buckling. I hadn't even realized I'd picked it up.
"My mistake," I muttered, swapping the jugs. "It's been a long shift."
"It's 8:00 AM," the suit sneered, checking his watch. "If you can't handle the morning rush, maybe you should find a job that requires less… cognitive function."
I didn't snap. I didn't throw the steaming pitcher of milk in his face, even though the urge was a physical itch in my palms. I was twenty-two years old, I had forty-three dollars in my bank account, and rent was due in three days. I couldn't afford dignity.
I finished the drink, capped it, and slid it across the counter. "Have a nice day."
He didn't thank me. He snatched the cup and turned away, already tapping on his phone. As he walked out the door, the bell chimed—a cheerful ding that mocked the misery of the morning.
I leaned back against the counter, exhaling a breath I felt like I'd been holding since I woke up. This was my life. The invisible girl. To the people of Ashwick, I was a pair of hands that made coffee, a silhouette in a window, a ghost haunting the edges of their real, important lives.
But lately, the invisibility felt… thin.
I rubbed the back of my neck. The skin there was prickling, the tiny hairs standing on end. It was a sensation I'd grown used to over the last week, a low-level hum of anxiety that buzzed at the base of my skull.
It felt like static electricity. It felt like walking past a high-voltage fence.
It felt like eyes.
I scanned the café. It was the usual morning crowd: commuters with their heads buried in tablets, students huddled over textbooks, a few tourists looking miserable about the weather. No one was looking at me. They were looking at their phones, their pastries, the rain streaking the glass.
You're losing it, Victoria, I told myself, grabbing a rag to wipe down the espresso wand. You're tired, you're broke, and you're malnourished. Paranoia is just a side effect of the Ashwick diet.
But the feeling didn't leave. It intensified.
It felt like a thumb pressing against the pulse point of my throat. I scrubbed the counter harder, focusing on the rhythmic circular motion, trying to ground myself in the friction of cloth against laminate.
"You're going to rub a hole in the Formica, Vic."
I jumped, dropping the rag.
Mina was leaning over the counter, grinning at me. She was a riot of color in a monochromatic world. Bright yellow raincoat, lipstick the color of a fire truck, and hair that had been dyed a shocking electric blue since I saw her yesterday. She shook her umbrella, sending a spray of cold water over the display case of muffins.
"Jesus, Mina," I breathed, hand over my heart. "Don't sneak up on me."
"I didn't sneak. I entered with the grace and subtlety of a marching band," she said, hopping onto a barstool. "You were just in the Zone. The Murder Zone. You had that look in your eyes again. The one that says, 'I am contemplating which kitchen utensil would make the best weapon'."
"The frothing thermometer," I said automatically. "It's sharp, sturdy, and easy to clean."
Mina laughed, a bright, jagged sound that cut through the gloom. "That's my girl. One large chai, extra dirty, please. And a bear claw. I need sugar to survive this weather. The humidity is doing hateful things to my bangs."
I turned to start her drink, grateful for the distraction. Mina was the only person in Ashwick who actually saw me. We'd grown up in the same crumbling orphanage on the east side, bonding over shared trauma and a mutual hatred of authority. She waited tables at the diner down the street, and we spent our evenings drinking cheap wine and dreaming of moving somewhere with sunlight.
"You look like hell," Mina noted, watching me tamp down the espresso. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Not really," I admitted. The steam wand hissed as I engaged it. "The dreams were bad again."
"The fire?"
"The blood," I corrected softly. "And the throne. Always that damn red throne."
Mina hummed sympathetically. She knew about the nightmares. She didn't know about the other things, the way wounds healed too fast on my skin, or the strange, claw-shaped birthmark on my collarbone that sometimes burned when I was angry. I kept those secrets close. In a city like Ashwick, being different didn't get you a prize; it got you dissected.
"Well, maybe this will cheer you up," Mina said, lowering her voice as I slid her drink across the counter. "I think you have a secret admirer."
I froze. The milk jug in my hand felt suddenly heavy. "What?"
"Don't give me that panic-face. Look," she nodded toward the window. "Across the street. By the newsstand. Tall, dark, and brooding. He's been standing there for twenty minutes, just staring at the shop."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I forced myself to look.
Through the rain-streaked glass, past the rushing traffic and the gray blur of pedestrians, a figure stood motionless under the awning of the newsstand. He was too far away to see clearly, but the silhouette was imposing, broad shoulders, a long dark coat that swallowed the light. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't reading a paper.
He was facing The Grinder. Facing me.
The sensation on my neck flared hot, a phantom touch sliding down my spine.
"He's... intense," Mina grinned, taking a bite of her bear claw. "Maybe he's shy. Or maybe he's rich. We like rich, Vic. Rich solves the rent problem."
"He's not shy," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "He's watching."
"Watching is the first step of courting. Or stalking. It's a fine line, really." Mina waved a hand dismissively. "You need a boyfriend, Victoria. Not a stalker. But hey, if he pays for dinner, I say we don't ask questions."
"He's not a boyfriend, Mina."
"How do you know? He could be a mysterious billionaire who wants to whisk you away from the world of burnt coffee and minimum wage."
"He feels..." I searched for the word, my eyes locked on the dark figure. The rain seemed to curve around him, avoiding his coat. "He feels like a graveyard."
Mina paused, her cup halfway to her mouth. She looked at me, her playfulness dimming slightly. "Okay, that's creepy. Even for you. Do you want me to go out there and yell at him? I have a very shrill yelling voice. I can threaten to call the cops."
"No," I said quickly. The last thing I wanted was to draw his attention to Mina. Whatever this was, it was focused on me. "Ignore him. He's probably just waiting for a bus."
"There's no bus stop there, Vic."
"Then he's waiting for a drug deal. It's Ashwick. It's definitely drugs." I turned my back on the window, forcing my hands to steady as I wiped the counter again. "Ignore him."
But I couldn't. I could feel his gaze boring into my shoulder blades. It wasn't human. A human stare was curious, or lecherous, or aggressive. This felt ancient. It felt predatory. It felt like a wolf assessing the structural integrity of a sheep pen.
Mina finished her pastry, sensing my mood shift. "Hey," she reached over and squeezed my hand. Her skin was warm, rough from work. "I'm closing tonight at the diner. Come by? I'll sneak you some pie."
"I can't," I lied. "I have to pick up a shift. Gary threatened to fire me if I didn't cover for Sarah."
"Gary is a toad," Mina stated. "A wart on the ass of society."
"Agreed. But a toad who signs my paychecks."
Mina hopped off the stool, adjusting her yellow coat. "Fine. But text me when you get home? Seriously. If Graveyard Guy follows you, you call me. I have a cast-iron skillet and a lot of repressed rage."
"I will," I promised. "Go. Don't be late."
She flashed me one last smile and headed out the door. I watched her go, seeing her yellow coat bobbing through the crowd.
Then, against my better judgment, I looked back at the newsstand.
The dark figure was gone.
There was no relief. The absence of him was worse than his presence. It meant he was moving.
The rest of the shift was a blur of steam and caffeine. I moved like an automaton, taking orders, making change, forcing a polite smile that didn't reach my eyes. Every time the door chime rang, I flinched, expecting to see a dark coat and red eyes.
But it was just business suits, wet umbrellas, and exhausted students.
By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, my feet were throbbing in my cheap sneakers, and my apron was stained with coffee grounds and milk. Gary, my manager, a man whose sweat smelled like old onions waddled out of the back office.
"You're closing alone tonight, Victoria," he grunted, not looking at me. "Sarah called in sick again."
"I closed alone last night," I argued, my voice tight. "And the night before. It's a safety violation to have one person here after dark, Gary."
"It's a coffee shop, not a bank," he sneered. "Nobody's going to rob you for biscotti. Do the inventory, mop the floors, and don't clock out until the register balances. If you're short again, it's coming out of your tips."
"I wasn't short. The machine jammed."
"Just do it," he waved a hand, grabbing his coat. "I'm leaving. Lock up."
He left me there in the darkening shop. I hated him with a clean, cold precision. I imagined, briefly, the espresso machine exploding and covering him in scalding foam. It was a comforting thought.
I locked the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. The silence of the shop was sudden and heavy. The refrigerator hummed. The rain tapped against the glass like impatient fingers.
I began the closing ritual. wiping tables, stacking chairs, emptying the trash. The mundane tasks usually soothed me, but tonight, my skin felt too tight for my body.
He's watching.
The thought whispered in my ear.
I spun around, scanning the empty shop. Nothing. Just the reflection of my own face in the darkened window. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, and that strange amber gaze that always looked a little too predatory for a barista.
My mother, whoever she was, had given me those eyes. The nuns at the orphanage used to say I had devil eyes. Maybe they were right. Maybe that's why the darkness always felt like it was leaning in to greet me.
I finished the inventory in record time, my hands shaking as I counted the cash drawer. It balanced perfectly. I grabbed my bag, shoved my arms into my worn leather jacket, and killed the lights.
The walk home was usually my favorite part of the day. Ashwick was ugly by day, but at night, the shadows hid the grime. The streetlights reflected on the wet pavement like spilled gold.
Tonight, the shadows didn't look like cover. They looked like mouths.
I walked fast, hugging my jacket tight around me. My apartment was six blocks away, in a neighborhood that real estate agents politely called "up-and-coming" and everyone else called "don't walk alone at night."
My footsteps echoed on the wet concrete. C
Then, a second set of footsteps.
They were soft. Not the hurried pace of a commuter. The stalking pace of a human.
I stopped. The footsteps stopped.
I turned around. The street was empty. A stray cat darted out from an alley, hissing at nothing, and scrambled up a fire escape.
"Is someone there?" I called out. My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the damp air.
Silence. Just the distant wail of a siren and the drip of rain from a gutter.
I turned back and walked faster. The sensation of being watched drilled into the back of my skull. It was agonizing. It made my teeth chatter. I clutched the strap of my bag, my knuckles turning white. I had a canister of pepper spray in my pocket, but it felt like a toy. Against this feeling? Against this weight? Pepper spray felt like bringing a toothpick to a dragon fight.
I took a shortcut through an alley that cut between two textile factories. It was a stupid move, Mina would have slapped me but I just wanted to be home. I wanted my lock, my cat, and a knife in my hand.
The alley was pitch black, the streetlights at either end blocked by the towering brick walls. The air here was colder, smelling of rot and wet cardboard.
Midway through, I froze.
He was there.
He wasn't behind me. He was in front of me.
Blocking the exit of the alley was a figure. Tall. Immobile. He was just a silhouette against the faint light of the street beyond, but the presence hit me like a physical wave of force. It pushed the air out of my lungs.
It was the man from the newsstand.
I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his attention. It was heavy, suffocating. It tasted like metal on my tongue.
"Move," I said. I tried to make it a command, but it came out as a plea.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, a void in the shape of a man.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and for the first time in my life, it didn't choose flight. A surge of heat flared in my chest, radiating from the birthmark on my collarbone. It was a hot, angry spike of adrenaline.
"I said, move!" I shouted, stepping forward.
The man tilted his head. It was a bird-like, inquisitive motion.
Then, he stepped aside.
He melted into the shadows of the brick wall so seamlessly it looked like he had dissolved. One second he was solid; the next, he was smoke.
I didn't wait to ask questions. I ran.
I sprinted the last two blocks, my lungs burning, the rain mixing with the cold sweat on my face. I didn't stop until I slammed into the front door of my building, fumbling with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them twice.
I finally got the door open, threw myself inside, and locked it. I leaned against the peeling paint of the hallway wall, gasping for air, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Safe. You're safe.
I trudged up the three flights of stairs to apartment 4B. I unlocked my door and bolted it behind me, sliding the chain into place.
"Pickles?" I called out softly.
My ginger tabby cat trotted out from the kitchen, meowing a greeting. I scooped him up, burying my face in his fur. He smelled like dust and comfort.
"I'm losing my mind, Pickles," I whispered into his neck. "I'm officially cracking up."
I walked into the small kitchenette, dropping my bag on the table. My hands were still trembling. I needed tea. I needed something hot to chase away the chill that had settled in my marrow.
I filled the kettle and set it on the stove. As the blue flame flickered to life, I walked to the window. My apartment overlooked the street below.
I pulled back the curtain just an inch.
He was there.
Standing under the streetlight directly across from my building. He wasn't hiding anymore. He was looking up. Straight up. Straight at my window.
The light caught his face for a fraction of a second.
He was beautiful. That was the first thing my brain registered. A devastating, symmetrical beauty that hurt to look at. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. But then I saw the scar running down the side of his face, and I saw his eyes.
Even from three stories up, I saw them.
They were red. They were crimson, glowing with a dull, internal luminescence like dying embers.
He raised a hand. He didn't wave. He touched two fingers to his forehead in a mocking salute.
Then, he smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was a promise.
I let the curtain snap back into place, stumbling backward. My legs hit the kitchen table, and I gripped the edge to keep from falling.
"Mina was wrong," I whispered to the empty room, the terror finally taking root in my gut, cold and absolute.
"He's not a stalker."
The kettle began to whistle, a low, rising scream that matched the sound building in my own throat.