THE HUNTER .

---

Someone took my fucking soul and left my body behind to rot in this chair.

That's the only way I can explain it.

Because I'm sitting here—physically, technically, unfortunately—in class, in this too-bright room that smells like old textbooks and damp air conditioning. But my mind? It's somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Somewhere colder. Somewhere it's still screaming.

My hands are cold. My arms are shaking under the desk. My eyes flicker over the board, over the professor's scribbles, the moving lips of classmates, the occasional cough, pen click, foot tap—but I don't hear any of it.

None of it fucking matters.

Because he's gone.

My cat.

My Boo Boo.

Gone.

Disappeared.

Vanished into thin fucking air like a ghost dragged him into the walls.

Before coming here, I tore my room apart. Checked every goddamn inch. Behind the shelves, under the bed again, even in the bathroom cabinet because maybe, just maybe, he got weird ideas last night. But nothing. No trace. Not a fur. Not a sound. Not even his usual paw indent at the side of the pillow where he always curls up.

Just gone.

And it's not like this is a normal cat, okay?

He's mine. He's me in a fur suit.

I remember the first time I found him—my 18th birthday, that October morning, when everything felt weird and disconnected and kind of like the universe forgot I existed.

And then there he was.

On the porch. Just there. Sitting calmly on the plastic chair outside my window like he knew I needed him. No collar. No tag. Just this grumpy little furball with too-big eyes and an attitude problem worse than mine.

I didn't name him.

The moment I opened the door, he walked in like he owned the place.

Boo Boo.

Fucking fate.

Three years we've been together. He's been my alarm clock, my midnight therapist, my lazy little roommate. 

. Now All I remember is playing with him, tossing that damn ball, crawling on the floor with him like a maniac. Then waking up to nothing.

No Boo Boo.

And no answers.

And no one seems to fucking care.

The professor's still talking—something about literary motifs or postmodern structure, or whatever—and I know I should listen. I want to listen. I want to be normal for once. But I can't.

My brain keeps spinning.

Who would take him?

How the fuck would they even get in?

I locked the door. I locked the balcony. I checked the windows—hell, I double checked every latch like a goddamn maniac. No one got in.

Unless—

Unless they didn't come in.

Unless they were already there.

What if someone was in my room last night? Hiding? Watching?

What if I missed them?

What if they took him while I slept?

My nails dig into my palm beneath the desk. My breathing shortens.

What if it's not someone?

What if it's something?

No. No, stop it. I'm being insane. I'm spiraling. I know I am. But my instincts won't let go of it. My gut is crawling. My thoughts are chewing on themselves.

Boo Boo didn't just walk out.

Someone took him.

And no matter how much I try to act normal, try to sit still and fake being a student in a fucking literature class, I know deep down—I'm not getting him back unless I figure this out.

This isn't a coincidence.

The drawing.

The text.

The project.

The expulsion.

Now this?

No.

Something is going on. Something I can't see yet.

And I swear to god, if I find the person who took him—

I'll burn the whole fucking world.

---

.

---

Maybe I'm losing my goddamn mind.

Or maybe I'm right.

And that's what scares me more.

By the time class ends, my legs move on their own. I barely hear the final bell. I don't hear Shaiza calling my name behind me, or Ifrah asking if I'm okay. I don't answer Ruby when she says something about lunch. I just walk. Straight out of the building, through the gates, into the haze of the city, like I'm being pulled by something invisible and sharp.

My brain won't shut up.

Every time I try to tell myself it's all just a freaky bunch of coincidences—the anonymous message, the unexplainable project submission, Cassandra fucking Monroe getting expelled like someone clipped her out of the story, and now Boo Boo vanishing—another voice snaps back louder:

No, it's not.

None of this is random.

You're not that lucky.

I mean, let's be honest. I've always had a twisted relationship with reality. I live in fantasy novels more than I live in the world. I talk about vampires and cursed bloodlines and soul-binding like it's small talk. So yeah—if I tell anyone what I'm thinking now, they'll probably laugh, roll their eyes, maybe even pat my head like I'm Boo Boo.

But I'm not joking.

I feel it in my bones.

Something is wrong.

And I need to know what the hell it is before it eats me alive.

---

By the time I reach home, the sky is gray and heavy again, like it's trying to mirror the shitstorm inside my head. I walk into the house quietly, toeing off my shoes, ignoring the smell of fried something coming from the kitchen.

I don't care.

Boo Boo's not here.

And that single fact makes the house feel colder than usual.

I walk past the living room. Past the warm colors and framed photos and that ugly floral rug my mom won't throw out. Past the hallway, where the shadows always linger a little longer. My room's door creaks when I push it open.

Empty.

Quiet.

Wrong.

My chest aches. My eyes burn. I kick the door shut behind me, drop my bag onto the floor, and fall onto the bed, face-first.

The pillow smells like him.

Like fur and warmth and safety. Like the one thing in this house that's mine is still here, hiding in the scent.

My throat tightens.

I don't cry.

I just... lay there. Arms stretched wide, heart cracked open and bleeding out silently.

I want to believe this is just some twisted coincidence. That I'm being dramatic. That I'm imagining it all. So I make a decision.

Tonight—I test it.

I let it happen.

I unlock the windows. The balcony door. Every latch, every lock. I open them just wide enough to invite in whatever the fuck this thing is. If it's real. If it's not.

I don't care anymore.

Let's see what happens.

Let's see if it comes back.

Let's see if it's watching.

I lie down again, this time on my back, eyes to the ceiling. Cold air flows in, brushing across my skin like fingers. I don't flinch. I don't cover myself. I stare up into the dark, whispering into the silence.

"Come on, then."

A challenge. A prayer. A whisper from a girl who's not sure if she's brave or just bone-deep terrified.

And then… sleep.

Eventually.

I don't know when I fall. I just know that the room swallows me whole.

---

Morning.

Pain wakes me.

A dull, sharp burn radiating from the side of my neck like something clamped onto me while I was unconscious and forgot to let go.

I jolt upright, heartbeat thudding like a fucking hammer in my chest.

The air is cold. My limbs are heavy. I blink against the bright light filtering through the curtains.

Everything feels off.

Not like yesterday. Not like sleep.

Like I've been drugged and dragged through a nightmare and dumped back into my body.

I swing my legs off the bed, breathing hard. My head is buzzing. I stumble to my feet and move straight to the mirror above my dresser.

My reflection greets me.

Eyes puffy. Hair a mess. Skin pale.

And then—

There it is.

The bite.

Right there.

Same fucking spot as last time.

But this time, it's deeper.

Two small, perfect punctures, just slightly indented. Not bug bites. Not scratches. Not some mosquito's farewell gift.

This is intentional.

This is deliberate.

And this time, it's red. Swollen. Faintly bruised.

A mark.

A claim.

My heart drops to the floor.

I lean in closer, hands gripping the sides of the mirror like it'll help me breathe better, like it'll tell me this isn't real.

But it is.

And I know it now, fully, without room for doubt—

This isn't a dream.

This isn't fantasy.

And this sure as fuck isn't a coincidence.

Something is happening.

Something has started.

And I am right in the center of it.

---

I don't breathe for a full minute.

I just stare.

At the reflection. At the mark.

At the proof.

The thing on my neck stings, raw and brutal. Two neat little holes, like someone—or something—pressed sharpened teeth into my flesh with calculated precision. It's swollen, angry red, as if screaming to be noticed.

But it's not the first.

No.

A week ago, I remember it clearly—coming out of the shower, tilting my head, and hissing because the side of my neck burned like hell. I'd brushed it off, called it a bug bite. Nothing serious. Until the second one appeared. The one my mom pointed out with that casual "What's on your neck?" over coffee. That one was smaller, newer, still faint.

But now?

Now it's not faint.

Now it's fucking real.

And the last two nights?

Both ended with me waking up with no memory of falling asleep. Both ended with the window cracked open, the air colder than usual, my heart thudding like I ran a marathon in my dreams. Both nights ended in marks.

But last night—I tested it.

I left the goddamn windows wide open. I let it happen.

And it did.

So if the bite mark is real—then what else is?

My body moves before my brain does. I tear through my room like I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

I flip pillows. Yank open drawers. Crawl under the bed, fingers digging into the dust-lined floor. I check inside books, under rugs, behind the damn mirror. My breath is coming in fast little pants, my pulse hammering in my ears. My thoughts scream on loop—

There has to be another one.

The first mark had a drawing.

If it's connected—if this shit is real—then there has to be a second.

There has to be—

And then I freeze.

My hands still.

Eyes lock.

It's sitting inside my literature book. Of all places. Wedged between "Wuthering Heights" and a stapled assignment I never turned in. A single sheet, folded once. Notebook paper. Ordinary. Torn at the edges.

I know that page.

I remember that book being on the desk yesterday. It's been sitting there for a week, untouched.

But this sheet?

It wasn't there.

Not yesterday.

Not ever.

I pull it out slowly, carefully, like it might bite.

And then I unfold it.

And I stop breathing.

It's me.

Another fucking portrait. Black ink. Soft shading. Lines so clean and sharp it looks like a goddamn photograph.

But it's not. It's hand-drawn.

The same way the first one was.

Only this time—it's closer. More detailed. My lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, one hand resting under my cheek like I'm in a dream I don't know I'm in.

Sleeping.

Again.

Drawn while I was asleep.

Just like the first one.

But this one is different. The strokes around my jaw, the softness in the mouth, the way the shadow hits my collarbone like the artist memorized how the light fell last night—this one is recent.

My blood runs cold.

I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop whatever noise is about to come out.

Tears prick the corner of my eyes, but I blink them away, shaking. Shaking so hard my knees knock together when I slowly sit down on the floor, the drawing still in my hand.

The world tilts.

No.

No, no, no.

This is wrong.

This is a violation.

This is real.

Two bite marks.

Two drawings.

Two nights.

And one missing cat.

I let it in.

I fucking let it in.

And it came back.

I stare at the paper, like it might speak, like it might confess. But all it does is stare back, quiet and perfect and intimate.

Someone watched me sleep.

Again.

Someone was here. In this room. In the dark. Inches from my bed. Breathing the same air. Reaching close enough to touch.

To mark.

I glance toward the door. Locked.

The window. Closed.

The air smells like rain again.

I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.

I think of Boo Boo.

I think of how he used to curl up beside me, warm and soft and safe.

And now he's gone.

Just gone.

Vanished without a sound.

And it doesn't make sense.

None of this fucking makes sense.

Unless—

Unless I stop pretending it's all normal.

Unless I admit this isn't some joke.

Not some prank.

Not some delusion.

Something came into my room.

Not once. Not twice.

At least three times.

And Boo Boo?

He tried to protect me.

I know it.

Because he was here the night I locked the doors.

And now he's not.

My chest aches so hard I fold in on myself, forehead pressing against my knees. Cold sweat beads on the back of my neck.

I'm not the protagonist.

I'm not the fearless girl who survives this shit.

I'm the side character.

The one who dies first.

The one no one listens to until it's too late.

And it's already too late.

I shove the drawing into my bag like it might bite me if I hold it any longer.

The edges scrape against my fingers—same texture, same fucking tear at the top like the one before. But this one… this one's worse. Closer. Hungrier.

I don't let myself look at it again.

I grab my hoodie, throw it over my head, yank my bag off the chair, and storm out. I don't even check if my shoes match. Don't care. My heart is doing backflips in my ribs, my brain's still locked on that inked version of me—mouth slightly open, like I'm whispering a secret in my sleep. Like he's waiting to hear it.

Fuck.

The sky outside is heavy again. That suffocating, post-rain kind of gray that presses down on your skin like a warning. My steps are fast, too fast, and by the time I reach the gates of the college, I'm already sweating, already shaking.

My friends spot me the moment I step into the corridor.

Shaiza's face twists first. "Ooo-kay, what's up with you? You look like a walking panic attack."

Ifrah squints behind her glasses. "Did you sleep at all? You look pale."

Ruby leans in, sniffing like a bloodhound. "You smell like coffee, sweat, and crime."

"I'm fine," I mutter. Lie. Big, fucking lie.

"Sure you are," Shaiza says dryly. "You ghosted us yesterday. Didn't say goodbye. Left group chat on read. The hell's going on?"

I glance around. Too many people. I don't trust these walls. Or that kid two lockers down. Or the flickering hallway light that sounds like it's trying to whisper to me.

"Come with me," I say. "Now."

They follow. Of course they do. Shaiza raises a brow, Ruby makes a dumb horror soundtrack noise with her mouth, and Ifrah is already asking a hundred questions. I don't answer any of them. I just drag them to the back staircase—cold, quiet, unused. My favorite panic corner.

I turn to them, exhale sharp. "Something's wrong."

Shaiza crosses her arms. "Yeah, no shit. You look like you saw a ghost and then married it."

"No, I mean—something is wrong."

Ruby tilts her head. "With what? Your sleep schedule? Your attitude? Your cursed love life?"

And then I do it. I yank the side of my hoodie down and tilt my neck. Show them.

The bite.

Raw. Red. Deep.

Third fucking one.

Their reaction is instant.

"OHHHHHHHHHHH," Shaiza sings like she's announcing a wedding.

Ruby nearly falls over laughing.

Ifrah gasps and covers her mouth. "Wait—wait—did Shadin come over last night??"

"Was that why you dipped yesterday?" Ruby grins. "You didn't say bye because you were getting your neck eaten?"

Shaiza whistles. "He was freaky, huh? I knew it. I always said that boy had secret demon energy."

"Guys, what the fuck—" I snap. "It's not what you think."

They all freeze.

"You know I'm not like that with him. We're not like that. He's my best friend, not my neck-biting fucktoy."

Ifrah looks vaguely disappointed. "So you didn't hook up with him?"

"No!"

Shaiza smirks. "Then who left that mark? Vampire boyfriend you're hiding?"

"Listen," I say, voice rising, breath catching in my chest, "Boo Boo's missing."

Silence. All three of them blink.

"What?" Ruby says finally.

"He's gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Like—fucking gone. And the worst part? Every window, every door—locked. Bolted. I locked everything before sleeping. No one got in. He didn't get out. It makes no sense."

Shaiza frowns. "Okay… that's not funny."

"I'm not joking!" My voice cracks. "And that's not it—before he disappeared, the night before, I found a drawing. Of me. Sleeping. Under my fucking bed. Like a goddamn surveillance sketch. Like someone was there."

Ifrah's eyes go wide. "You're being serious."

"I'm being dead serious. That drawing—it was me. Down to the damn crease on my sleeve. Someone drew me while I was asleep. And then Boo Boo was gone. And then today—today I wake up with another bite mark and find a second drawing. Closer. Worse. He's watching me. He's fucking watching me."

They stare.

And then—

Shaiza starts laughing.

Ifrah joins her, a nervous giggle.

Ruby grins. "Okay. Damn. You've been reading too many dark romance novels. You're spiraling."

I clench my fists. "You think I'm joking?"

Shaiza wipes her eye. "Okay, okay—so what? You got a stalker who's into sketching? Maybe you should be flattered. I mean, that's kinda hot."

"Hot? HOT?" I explode. "My CAT is missing. I'm getting bit in my sleep by—fuck knows what—and you think I'm making it up?"

Ifrah raises her hands. "Okay, okay—calm down. If it's real, prove it."

"I can," I say. "I have proof."

I yank my bag open. Heart pounding. Fingers dive into the inside pocket, already touching the edge of the paper.

"I have the fucking drawing."

I pull it out. Unfold it.

Hold it up.

And freeze.

My fingers go numb.

The girls lean in.

Nothing.

The page is blank.

 No ink.

No face.

No trace.

Just paper.

Like I imagined the whole fucking thing.

"What the hell?" I whisper.

Shaiza frowns. "This is it? You me

an this blank-ass sheet?"

"No. No, no—this isn't blank. It wasn't. I swear to god it wasn't."

Ruby tilts her head. "Okay… that's creepy."

"I saw it. I felt it. It was there. My face. Sleeping. Like a photo. I didn't imagine it. I didn't—"

My chest is caving in.

"What if it's magic paper?" Ifrah blurts. 

"Oh my god, Ifrah, this isn't Harry Potter," Shaiza mutters.

But no one's laughing anymore.

Not even her.

Because the look on my face?

I think it finally lands.

Something's wrong.

Something's really wrong.

And it's not just in my head anymore.

---

. AUTHOR NOTE 

If you're screaming, crying, or side-eyeing your window right now...

good.

You're exactly where I want you.

Because this?

This was just the beginning.

The bite is fresh. The stalker is watching. And reality? It's unraveling, fast.

Drop your theories below—

Who the hell is he?

Why Boo Boo?

And what the actual fuck is going on?

Comment. Follow. Scream in the replies.

Because next chapter?

You're not ready.