THE HUNTER .

I'm flat on my bed—arms sprawled out like a crime scene chalk outline, legs dangling half-off the edge, eyes locked on the cracked bit of ceiling paint I've memorized like it's a fucking constellation.

The rain is coming down hard outside. Thunder isn't even growling yet—this is the kind of rain that comes quietly but relentlessly, like a secret unraveling. A steady percussion against the windows. The smell of petrichor leaks through the tiny open slit in my window, cool and damp and rich like the air is trying to press its lips to mine.

I should be asleep.

I should be writing another damn project draft to future-proof myself from academic homicide.

But no.

No, I'm lying here like an idiot trying to mentally decode what the hell is wrong with this universe.

Cassandra Monroe—high heel stomping, Daddy-funded, mascara-dripping chaos tornado—is expelled.

And me? Still alive. Not just alive, but apparently the top scorer on a project I didn't even submit. Or at least, don't remember submitting.

What kind of glitch in the matrix is this? Is karma drunk? Did the universe hit shuffle?

My brain's been playing bumper cars all day trying to process it. Nothing makes sense. Every time I try to make a logical list of possible explanations, I end up with one conclusion: I'm probably cursed. Or blessed. Or hallucinating.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fists clenched over the bedsheet.

And then… like a motherfucking traitor, my brain flashes him.

The biker.

The goddamn hallucination on that black M 1000 RR. That absolute chaos of a man who pulled off a helmet and casually detonated my perception of physical beauty like it was nothing.

His eyes. The way they glanced over me once and discarded me like I wasn't worth registering—and why the fuck does that turn me on?

I groan and flip to my side, burying my face into the pillow. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

It was barely a few seconds. Not even a conversation. Just a look. A presence. A god-tier jawline.

And now?

Now I'm acting like a goddamn sophomore in heat. Blushing like a schoolgirl who just discovered abs. I don't blush. I threaten people. I blackmail my way through group projects. I once made a grown man cry in a debate. And now here I am, hiding my face from a memory like it can see me.

Cringe. Absolute fucking cringe.

I flip again, this time on my stomach, legs kicking up behind me like some cliché. My toes curl against the bedsheet as I think of the way he ran his hand through his hair. The way his leather jacket clung to his arms. The way his brows sat—condescending, judgmental, perfect.

"Get. A. Grip," I hiss at myself.

But do I?

Nope.

Instead, my brain goes full Netflix horny and starts spinning entire storylines. Maybe he's a trust fund brat turned rebel. Maybe he runs an illegal racing circuit. Maybe he has scars and secrets and sins he'll never confess to anyone but me. Maybe I'm the girl that changes him. Maybe I'm the one he doesn't ruin.

Bullshit.

Utter, steamy, Wattpad-level bullshit.

There's no fucking way someone like him is single. No chance. With that face? That aura? He probably has a whole harem of emotionally damaged girls lined up like Pokémon cards.

And loyal?

Pfft. Please.

He's not a red flag—he's a fucking red forest. A walking violation. The kind of man who leaves lipstick stains on wine glasses and then fucks off on a jet at sunrise. He's the reason therapists are booked out for months.

And I still want him.

Like some desperate, unhinged main character in a paperback tragedy.

I let out a muffled scream into the pillow, then flip over and stare at the ceiling again. My heart is beating fast, stupidly fast, like it thinks I'm in danger—or in love. Same thing, probably.

"What's happening to me?" I whisper.

No one answers. Except Boo Boo, curled at the foot of my bed like a judgmental little loaf.

I glance at him. "You wouldn't understand. You're neutered."

He yawns. The bitch.

I drag a hand down my face. I'm spiraling. I've lost it. I'm obsessed with a guy I don't know, who didn't even look at me twice, who's probably somewhere right now ruining another girl's life with that same slow blink and arrogant fucking smirk.

And yet here I am. Wanting him. Craving the chaos. Starved for something that might not even be real.

I know I'm insane.

But I also know I'm not done thinking about him.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to contain the smile pulling at it.

God help me. I'm gone.

And it's only getting worse.

I try to sleep.

I really fucking do.

Because I was already late to class today, and if I repeat that shit tomorrow—Tuesday—I might as well fake my death and get buried with my shame.

So I close my eyes. Deep breath. Exhale.

I try to think about nothing. Literally nothing. Like a void. Like the black screen after you shut off a TV.

But guess what shows up the moment my brain dares to be empty?

Him.

His hair, the goddamn way he ran his fingers through it. That casual smirk he didn't even wear, just was. The cold arch of his left brow like it's judging me from hell's waiting room. And his eyes.

Fuck his eyes.

I growl out loud, throw the blanket off, and shoot up like I've been electrocuted. "That's it," I hiss. "I'm fucking cursed. Maybe he's not real. Maybe I'm dying. Maybe he's the fucking reaper and he came to collect my soul and forgot the paperwork."

I slap my face lightly. Once. Twice. Doesn't help.

"Go to sleep, bitch," I mutter to myself, lie down again, and squeeze my eyes shut like I'm about to take a bullet.

Guess who's still there?

Standing in my head like a goddamn mental screensaver, arms crossed, face carved by angels who got drunk halfway through and added a layer of sin.

I sit up again, violently.

"I'm going insane. Literally. Clinically. Diagnosably."

I swing my legs over the bed and stare at the floor like it wronged me. "Nope. Nope. We are not doing this. I am not a simp. I do not catch feelings for strangers with predator eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to open mail."

I drop down onto the rug and start doing crunches. One. Two. Ten.

Still thinking about him.

Pushups. Squats. Burpees. Fucking lunges.

Still there.

I groan and collapse on my back. My body is already sore, and my pride is more bruised than my knees.

I hear a long, lazy stretch from the bed. Boo Boo lifts his head and yawns, tail flicking like he's been personally inconvenienced by my mental breakdown.

I squint at him. "You're getting fat, little shit."

He blinks.

"I'm serious," I say. "You need to move your ass. Maybe play fetch or chase shadows or flirt with the neighbor's cat or something. Live a little."

He continues blinking like he understands but refuses to acknowledge me.

I grab the old green foam ball from the corner and toss it in his direction. He sits still for a second—judging me—then finally pounces. Tail whipping behind him like he's in a car chase.

I chuckle. "Atta boy."

We keep at it for a few minutes. Just me and him. Tossing, scrambling, chasing.

And then the ball rolls straight under the bed.

Of course.

I huff and drop to my knees. "You better appreciate this," I mutter as I flatten my entire upper body and slide half under the bed like I'm breaking into a crime scene.

My fingers search blindly in the dark—dust, hair ties, wrappers, receipts,

I roll onto my side, arm stretched under the bed, fingers brushing against dust, a stray bobby pin, the forgotten corpse of a gum wrapper—until I touch something smooth.

Thin. Crisp.

Paper.

I sigh. Probably mine. Wouldn't be the first time I flung a page under there during one of my dramatic homework meltdowns. Careless as fuck. My life story.

I tug it out.

Just a regular notebook sheet, right? College-ruled lines. Slightly off-white. A small tear near the top corner. Definitely one of mine. Probably something I scribbled on and tossed without thinking.

I sit back on my heels and glance at it—ready to crumple and bin it.

But I don't.

Because it isn't notes. Or a list. Or some angry doodle of a dead professor with devil horns.

It's… me.

My hands go still.

On the paper—drawn in black ink, so precise it almost looks printed—is a portrait.

Of me.

Sleeping.

Hair fanned out like shadows across a pillow. Lips slightly parted. Eyes shut. My cheek pressed to my arm, body curled just enough to look peaceful but vulnerable.

I blink at it.

Once.

Twice.

Harder.

But it doesn't fucking disappear.

Every single line is surgical. Not rushed. Not scribbled. Intentional. Like the person who made this wasn't just sketching. They were studying.

My chest tightens.

This doesn't feel like some casual classroom doodle of a classmate. This feels like… surveillance.

Who the fuck draws someone like this?

How did this even get under my bed?

And—how the fuck does it look exactly like me?

Like a snapshot. Like a photograph. Like the kind of photo no one should be able to take without you knowing. A moment that doesn't exist anywhere outside your own four walls.

Outside your own bed.

My arms prick with cold.

The detail—it's not just my face.

It's my goddamn expression.

That specific way my mouth tugs slightly when I sleep on my left side. The crinkle at the edge of my brows. The crease in my sleeve, the way my hair bunches near the nape of my neck.

Who the fuck saw me like this?

"Arshila!" my mom's voice cuts through the upstairs silence like a whip. "Come help fold the laundry!"

I jolt, heart hammering. I fumble the paper in my hands, stare at it once more—burn the image into my brain—then carefully place it down on my desk. Nestled among my other notes like it belongs there.

It doesn't.

But I need a second. Just one.

"Coming!" I yell, voice rough, eyes still locked on the drawing even as I back away.

Downstairs smells like detergent and lemon floor cleaner. Familiar. Safe. Fake.

I fold shirts. Blouses. One sock. A hoodie. My body's going through the motions but my brain's still upstairs—locked onto those thick ink lines, the way the hair shadows were drawn so soft on such an ordinary goddamn page.

No signature.

No marks.

Just me.

Caught mid-sleep.

Fucking exposed.

I pick up a T-shirt, roll it so tight it looks like I'm strangling it, and shove it in the basket.

"Why're you rushing?" Mom asks, barely looking up.

"No reason," I lie. "I just remembered something."

And before she can ask more, I bolt. Two stairs at a time, pulse racing.

My room is exactly how I left it.

Blanket half off the bed.

Curtains trembling from the night air.

Boo Boo asleep near my pillow like he doesn't give a single shit that I'm living a horror movie.

I go straight to my desk.

And freeze.

The drawing—

It's not there.

My heart skips.

No. No fucking way.

I flip through the notes. Slam my palm across the desk, lifting sheets, tossing books.

Empty.

I grab the entire pile and shake it like I'm hoping it'll fall out.

Nothing.

Just air.

Gone.

Like it never fucking existed.

But I know what I saw.

I know it was there.

It was right there.

And someone took it.

Someone was here.

Again.

My knees hit the edge of the bed.

I stare at the desk like it's a crime scene.

The room doesn't feel like mine anymore.

And the notebook paper?

It wasn't regular.

It looked like one of my pages—but it wasn't torn from any of my books.

Too smooth.

Too sharp around the edges.

Too… placed.

Like it was meant to be found.

And now?

It's meant to be missed.

I suck in a breath. Cold. Shaky.

My breath tastes like fear.

Something isn't right.

Not just the paper. Not just the drawing.

Everything.

The fucking text.

The non-expulsion.

The project magically appearing in my professor's inbox.

Cassandra Monroe—rich, untouchable, Porsche-driving, fake-smiling Cassandra—getting expelled and her father's company going bankrupt in the same damn breath?

What the hell is happening?

That's not coincidence. That's not karma either.

That's... something else.

But then—maybe it is just coincidence, right? Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe I'm just overthinking. Maybe my brain's gone off the rails because I've been too fucking tired and sleep-deprived and—

No.

My fists clench.

I saw the drawing.

It was there.

Black ink on off-white paper. Me, sleeping. Down to the exact tilt of my mouth. That page didn't draw itself and vanish for fun.

I storm to my door, yank it open.

The hallway's empty.

Of course it is.

I march to the balcony door. Fingers trembling on the lock as I unlatch it and push it open.

Cool night air rushes in like a slap. I step out barefoot onto the tiles, skin flinching at the chill.

No footprints. No smudges. The railing untouched. The potted plants still standing. No sign of a break-in. No window left ajar. No trace of anyone having been here.

Like no one came.

Like no one left.

But I was gone five minutes, tops. Just folding laundry. No way in hell someone could come in, grab the drawing, and ghost out without making a sound or leaving a single piece of evidence.

Not unless they're a fucking ghost.

Or a goddamn ninja.

Or Boo Boo.

I spin, eyes narrowing at the furry lump curled up on my pillow.

"You," I whisper.

He opens one eye, tail flicking once.

"What if," I say slowly, "you are a cursed prince?"

He yawns. Loud. Dramatic. Flops to his side like I'm boring him.

"I'm being serious, Boo Boo. Don't test me."

He licks his paw.

I roll my eyes, dragging my hand through my hair until I feel like ripping it out. God, I've officially gone crazy. I'm interrogating my fucking cat now.

I go back to the desk.

Flip through the pile again.

Still nothing.

But then—

I notice a page tucked behind my textbook. Same color. Same paper grain.

My heart kicks.

I yank it out—yes, this is it! Same lines, same slight tear at the top. Same texture. Same weight in my hand.

But when I turn it over—

Blank.

Nothing.

Empty.

No sketch. No face. No me.

Just a goddamn empty page.

The fuck?

I stare at it. Turn it over again. Hold it up to the light. Rub it between my fingers.

Nothing.

But I know this is the one. I remember the way it felt when I pulled it out from under the bed. The slight rough edge on the corner. That stupid tear. It is the same page.

But it's blank now.

Like it never happened.

My chest is tight again. My skin is buzzing.

And for the first time in a long time—I'm not angry.

I'm not even anxious.

I'm scared.

Something isn't adding up.

No, fuck that—nothing is adding up.

I toss the blank page aside like it's burned me. It flutters across the desk and lands half-hanging off the edge, like it's mocking me.

My hands grip the sides of the table to keep from shaking.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I lock everything.

Every window. Every door. Even the goddamn balcony I barely open.

Click.

Latch.

Bolt.

I pull the curtains shut, double check the lock on my door, then crawl under the blanket like it can shield me from whatever the fuck this is.

It's cold.

Or maybe it's just me.

My arms are goosebumped, my breath is shallow, and my chest hasn't stopped tightening since that drawing vanished. My fucking cat didn't draw that. No one in my house did. And yet it existed. And now it doesn't.

I fumble for my earphones and shove them into my ears like they can muffle the panic. My playlist starts—a slow, lo-fi beat I usually fall asleep to—but tonight it feels too soft, too thin, too breakable. Just like me.

I turn over.

Boo Boo is curled up beside my pillow, his little paws tucked under his chin like he doesn't have a single thought in the world.

"You lucky asshole," I whisper.

I kiss the top of his head.

His ears flick lazily, purring still rumbling through his small body.

He doesn't even open his eyes.

I exhale.

Okay. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe my brain's just fried. I'm tired. Sleep-deprived. Overstimulated. Hallucinating. Whatever.

It's probably just that.

Right?

I turn the volume up, tug the blanket higher, and close my eyes.

Sleep, Arshila. Sleep.

---

I jolt awake.

Light. Too much of it. Slanting in through the curtain like a knife to the eyes. I blink, disoriented, lungs dragging air like I forgot how.

Something feels—

Off.

I sit up slowly, ears still buzzing faintly from the leftover echo of the music, my earphones tangled around my arm like a noose.

My eyes scan the room.

My bed is a mess. My laptop's dead. The blanket's half on the floor. Everything looks normal. But…

I rub my face.

There's something—

Missing.

I can't figure it out yet, but my chest knows it before my brain does. It's that weird sensation when you enter a room and forget why, or realize too late that you've left something behind. A void. Quiet. Empty.

Then I turn to the other side of the bed.

And it hits me like a truck.

Boo Boo.

My stomach plummets.

He's not there.

"Boo?"

Nothing.

I check under the blanket. Under the pillow. Under the bed.

Gone.

"Boo Boo, come on," I whisper, voice breaking.

No shuffle. No meow. No purring. Just silence.

I check behind the curtain, the corners, even the laundry basket. Nothing.

I scramble to the door, tug the handle. It's still locked.

Still fucking locked.

The balcony?

Still bolted. Curtain still drawn. No signs of anything forced.

And that's when it really hits me.

There is no way he got out of this room.

None.

"Mom!" I scream, bolting from the room, my bare feet hitting the stairs like thunder. "Mom, did you see Boo Boo?"

She answers from the kitchen, groggy. "What? No? Isn't he in your room? He always sleeps with you."

"I—I locked the door."

"What?"

"I locked my door," I repeat, louder this time, hands shaking as they curl into fists. "And the balcony. Everything. He didn't get out."

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the house.

And then—

"Well, he'll come out. Probably hiding under your bed or something."

But he's not.

I know he's not.

I checked.

I stumble back to my room, heart hammering like I'm being hunted, like the walls are watching.

My knees give out the moment I reach the rug, and I slump against the wall, robotically lowering myself to the floor.

My hands shake.

My chest is a warzone.

Something's not right.

Someone took Boo Boo.

-----------------------------------------------------

Do you believe in coincidences?

Because Arshila doesn't anymore.

One second, there's a drawing of her sleeping—impossibly accurate. The next, it's gone. Her cat? Vanished. Her life? Spiraling fast.

This isn't just a mystery.

It's intentional.

And it's only getting darker from here.

 Comment if you've ever had that gut-deep feeling that something is watching you.

 Don't forget to follow, because what's coming next will ruin your sleep schedule.

If Boo Boo's missing messed you up—just wait till she finds out who's been drawing her

---

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