THE HUNTER .

.

---

It's been a fucking week.

Seven days of sleepless nights, cold sheets, and twitchy paranoia. Seven days of clutching pepper spray in one hand and that tiny electric shocker in the other like some deranged, wide-eyed warrior waiting for a ghost to show up again.

But he doesn't.

No drawing.

No bite.

No breath on my neck.

No late-night whisper from the dark.

Nothing.

Every morning I wake up and run to the mirror like a fucking lunatic, yanking my collar to check my neck for fresh marks. But there's nothing but skin. Pale, smooth, untouched.

Like he's moved on.

Like I was just a phase.

Like I was his trial run and now he's gone to fuck with someone else.

Or maybe the cops scared him. Or maybe he's dead in a ditch somewhere.

Hell, maybe I made it all up.

No. No, I didn't. I know I didn't.

But still… it's quiet.

Too quiet.

And now I'm sitting here under this giant ass tree in the campus yard, cross-legged on the stone bench, the shade swallowing half my body. My friends are scattered around the grass near me—Shaiza's got a lollipop in her mouth, Ruby's sprawled out like a dead person, and Ifrah is braiding and unbraiding a blade of grass with nervous fingers.

We've been talking about him again.

About how if we just get another proof—just one—we could run it to the cops and finally drag his twisted ass into the light. Maybe a photo. A recording. Anything.

"He's really ghosted you, huh?" Ruby says with a fake pout. "Your toxic little situationship ran dry."

I glare at her.

"You miss him?" Shaiza teases. "Bet you do. All those night visits, the creepy art, the whispered death threats—ugh, the romance."

"Fuck off," I mutter, but I'm smiling in that dead-eyed way that says I will bury you alive.

And then—

Buzz.

My phone lights up in my lap.

Ruby raises a brow. "Shadin?"

I shake my head. "Nah. Just that guy. You know, the one who always likes my stories? Every time I post something, boom—heart. Instant."

"Ohhh," Ifrah grins. "Your secret simp."

"Not a simp," I say. "He just… lurks."

"What's his name again?" Shaiza asks, leaning in. "Let me stalk him. I'm in the mood to ruin a man today."

I snort and turn the screen toward her. "Here. Go crazy. You'll be disappointed. His account's all, like, streets and rain and moody-ass buildings. Everything's aesthetic. But not like girly Pinterest aesthetic. Like… emo boy aesthetic. Gritty and beautiful."

She takes the phone, scrolling through his grid, her brows furrowed. "No selfies?"

"Nope. No photos of him at all. Just… vibes."

Shaiza clicks on his highlights. "Rain. Windows. Trees. City lights. Same shit over and over."

"Exactly," I say. "Told you. He's harmless."

Then she freezes.

I mean freezes.

"Wait a second…" she mutters, eyes narrowing.

"What?" I ask.

Shaiza doesn't answer. She just keeps tapping through the stories.

One after the other.

Then Ifrah scoots closer, peeking over her shoulder.

And Ifrah's face goes pale.

"Wait."

We all look at her.

"Pause," she says. "Everyone—wait a damn second."

She grabs the phone from Shaiza and flips back to a story highlight. A rain-drenched street. A coffee cup on a café table. The date in the corner: October 14th.

"That day," she says, voice tight, "that was the day we went to Caffeine Alley, right?"

Ruby frowns. "So?"

"That's also the day I found out my boyfriend cheated on me. I remember it perfectly."

We're quiet for a second. And then I blink slowly.

"Could be a coincidence," I say, already not believing my own words.

Ifrah scrolls faster. She pulls up another story—October 10th. A shot of a sidewalk. The ivy wall behind it is unmistakable.

"That's the fucking library," Ruby whispers. "We were there that day. Studying."

Another.

October 6th. The sun falling through the arches of our campus gate.

Another.

October 3rd. A staircase. I know that one. It's the goddamn stairwell next to the bio lab.

Ruby snatches the phone. "Holy shit."

Her hands are shaking.

I feel like my blood just turned to ice water.

"I was there," I whisper. "All those places. All those dates. I was there."

We scroll together now. Story after story. Date after date. Every single one lines up with a place I've been. Sometimes with my friends. Sometimes alone.

Sometimes the photo's taken from an angle like he's standing behind me.

Shaiza's breathing hard now. "Okay, no. This—this is fucked."

"He's been following you this whole time," Ruby says. "Not just at night. Not just in your house. Every day. In broad daylight."

"And we didn't fucking notice," Ifrah mutters. "How the hell didn't we notice?"

My throat goes dry.

Suddenly I can't sit anymore. I get up. I pace. My heartbeat is back—loud, brutal, thunder inside my skull.

That guy. The one I thought was just some harmless account. Some aesthetic-liker. Some random Instagram nobody.

He was always there.

Always watching.

And now I realize—he never left.

He just got better at hiding.

Shaiza grips my wrist so tight it hurts.

"Let's go. Now. No more waiting," she says, dragging me up from the bench like we've already made the decision. "We have proof, Arshila. This time, it's real. We're not gonna let him fuck around with your life anymore."

I hesitate. My throat's dry. "But what if it's just a coincidence?" I say quietly, the words tasting like fear. "I mean… people take photos in random places all the time. Doesn't mean he was following me."

Ruby's eyes go wide.

And then she slaps my hand off her arm. Hard.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" she snaps. "You in love with your stalker or what? Why the fuck are you defending him?"

"I'm not defending him!"

"You sound like it. Maybe you do miss him. Is that it? You wanna be his fucking muse again?"

"Shut up!" I hiss.

But she's already storming off toward the campus gate. And I follow. Because what else can I do?

The air outside the station is stale as ever. It smells like cement dust and regret. Shaiza marches ahead like she's about to murder someone. Ifrah sticks beside me like a shadow. Ruby's on her phone, probably venting to her group chat about how her best friend's a delulu idiot in love with a ghost.

When we enter, the waiting area is dead quiet except for the low hum of a fan overhead. We go to the front desk.

He's not here.

The officer from last time—Officer Dhillon—the guy who actually listened to me, who filed my case, asked me questions, and promised to "look into it" like a damn adult—he's not here.

Instead, a younger cop sits at the desk. Clean uniform, sharper jawline, a badge that still looks shiny-new. Baby-faced and bored.

He glances up. "Can I help you?"

"I filed a case here," I say, stepping forward. "One week ago. Stalking. And I'm here to follow up. I also have new evidence."

He taps the keyboard. "Name?"

"Arshila Eshaal Mirza."

Shaiza chimes in, her tone sharp: "Where's Officer Dhillon?"

The guy doesn't even look up from the monitor. "Transferred. This morning."

My heart stalls.

"What?" Ruby asks, voice too high.

"Yeah. Left city jurisdiction. Internal notice was out yesterday."

Shaiza exchanges a horrified look with me, and I can't breathe. Transferred?

The guy squints at his screen. "Sorry, miss. No case under your name."

"What?"

I lean over the desk, panic rising like bile. "What do you mean? I filed it. A whole-ass report. He typed everything into that fucking system!"

"There's no report here. Not under your name. Not under your number. Nothing related to stalking in the last two weeks from this station. Are you sure—"

"I'M SURE," I snap.

Ifrah places a hand on my arm, trying to calm me down, but my pulse is raging. "I gave a statement. I gave a picture. A fucking drawing. It was on my phone. I showed it to Dhillon. I watched him save it!"

The officer's face stays polite, smooth, unreadable. "Do you still have the picture?"

"Yes," I breathe, snatching my phone out of my pocket with trembling fingers. "Yes, I—"

I open my gallery.

And everything in me shatters.

The folder is gone.

The photo is gone.

The backup is gone.

It's just blank.

Not deleted. Not in trash.

Just never there.

I stare at the screen, hands shaking. "No. No. No, no, no. It was here. I swear it was here."

Shaiza leans over, squinting. "Are you serious right now?"

"It was here!"

Ruby snatches the phone, scrolls like a maniac. "It's not even in the recently deleted folder," she says.

"I know!" I bark. "I'm not crazy!"

The officer's voice drops low, cautious. "Miss, would you like to file a new case?"

I look up at him.

His expression is gentle. Too gentle. Like he's talking to someone broken.

A victim who isn't even useful anymore.

Because there's nothing left.

"No," I whisper.

"Miss—"

"No."

And I walk out.

Shaiza chases after me. "Arshila, wait—why won't you file again?"

"For what?" I shout, spinning around to face her on the steps. "For what, Shaiza? If he can delete shit from a fucking police computer, if he can reach into my phone and wipe evidence, then what the fuck is the point?"

They all fall silent.

I laugh. A dry, cracked sound. "He's not just stalking me. He's not just watching. He's not just creeping. He's inside everything. He's in my fucking phone, my house, my head. I'm not fighting a man—I'm fighting a ghost with admin access."

"You don't know that—" Ifrah starts.

I look her dead in the eye.

"Then you go to the cops. You tell them you had proof. And now it's gone. Watch what they do."

Ruby crosses her arms. "What do we do now?"

I glance around.

The street feels too quiet. The shadows feel too thick.

"We don't trust anyone," I whisper. "And we don't file anything."

"But we're back to square one," Shaiza mutters, like it physically pains her.

"No," I say. "We're not."

I will wait for him 

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

He doesn't come back.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the next ten.

No bite mark.

No drawing.

No voice whispering shit in the dark.

No faceless bastard in a hoodie standing under her window, breathing like sin.

Nothing.

At first, I wait.

Every night, I wait.

Body still, eyes half-shut under the blanket like I'm asleep, like I'm bait.

My phone in my palm, pepper spray under the pillow, electric shocker in my hand like a goddamn lightsaber.

Nothing.

Not even a fucking creak.

Not even that breath on my neck that once made me want to die and scream and melt at the same time.

I block the Instagram account. That faceless pretty-boy-with-an-aesthetic-vibe bullshit account. I report it. I delete it from my history. I even stop sleeping with my phone near me.

Because I think—

Maybe that's how he's watching.

Maybe he's in the camera.

Maybe the phone is the new under-the-bed.

But still—

Nothing.

And eventually...

I breathe.

The silence doesn't kill me anymore.

It starts to feel like a drug. Like detox.

The days start going by normally again.

I laugh again.

Eat again.

Even sleep like a human.

I don't wake up clutching my neck or flipping my sheets in terror.

No police.

No friends asking if I saw "the freak" again.

No haunting whispers in the dark.

No art on my nightstand.

Just me.

Just the leftover paranoia humming in the background like a bad playlist I can't switch off.

And I fucking hate that it's quiet.

I hate that he left me hanging.

Like he ghosted me from my own horror movie.

Like I wasn't even good enough to be a final girl.

What kind of stalker gives up halfway through the obsession?

What kind of sick twisted psycho stops stalking?

That's when the thoughts start creeping in again. But this time, it's not about him watching me.

It's me.

Watching him.

Or trying to.

I unblock that Instagram account again.

Scroll through his stories.

Rain.

Pavement.

Sunlight leaking through trees.

The curve of a black railing on an old staircase.

Street dogs.

A broken lamp post.

All beautiful.

All aesthetic.

All familiar.

And the captions?

Just emojis. 

No words. No tags. No mentions.

It feels like he's whispering again, but now he's using pictures instead of words.

And I start to wonder.

Where is he now?

Where does he sleep?

What kind of music does he play when he paints me in his twisted little mind?

Does he draw other girls now?

Does he miss biting me?

God, I sound insane.

But it's the truth.

Because somewhere between hating him and fearing him—

I started needing him.

Not romantically. Not in a fucked-up love story way. I don't want to date him.

I want to find him.

I want to corner him.

I want to catch him.

I want to see his eyes when I look him in the face and say:

"Gotcha, motherfucker."

I want him to know I survived.

I want him to know I'm not scared anymore.

And I want him to know that whatever twisted power he thought he had?

I stole it.

I own it now.

I'm the one watching.

I'm the one obsessed.

So I make a new Instagram.

No posts. No stories. No profile pic.

I follow only one account.

His.

And I wait again.

But not like prey anymore.

This time?

I'm the predator.

---

Fuck it.

One night, I do it.

I message him.

I actually fucking type it out and press send like I haven't lost my goddamn mind.

> "Why don't you come tonight?"

"I'm waiting for you."

"Let's draw some fucking goddamn portraits together."

Yeah.

I sent that.

I fucking sent that.

I stare at the message sitting there in the DM box like a loaded gun on a table. Like I've just dropped the mic after confessing I'm unhinged and thirsty for the same motherfucker who once breathed on my neck like a demon about to feast.

There's no reply.

Of course there isn't.

Not even a 'seen'.

Not even a flicker of activity.

Just… silence.

Static air. Cold phone screen. Empty goddamn dark.

I don't even know what I expected.

Some freaky response like "You miss me, kitten?"

Or maybe another drawing at dawn.

Or a video this time.

Of me. Sleeping. Again.

But nah. Nothing.

Not even a fucking ghost emoji.

And somewhere deep inside the leftover pit of my pride, something twists. Something sour. Something angry.

Because maybe he's not the stalker.

Maybe he was never the stalker.

Maybe this poor aesthetic-tree-photographing bastard just posted some dumbass rain videos and I, the clown queen of paranoia, dragged him into my psychotic soap opera.

Maybe he was just nearby.

At the café. On the street. Same college maybe.

Maybe he just has a thing for cracked pavements and moody lighting and now I've slapped him in the face with "Come bite me, Picasso."

God. I really am insane.

And what if he opened it?

Saw it.

Laughed.

Showed it to his friends.

"Look, this girl thinks I'm some creepy vampire stalker who draws her while she sleeps. Bro, what the actual fuck—"

I roll over and scream into my pillow so hard it muffles the cracked laugh that escapes halfway through.

This is humiliation.

This is grief.

This is post-traumatic thirst disorder.

And finally—I give up.

No more waiting.

No more whispering thoughts in the dark.

No more checking my neck in the mirror like a freak.

No more dreams about teeth and drawings and breath I can't forget.

No more theories.

No more cops.

No more wild fucking ideas about vanishing ink and glitching memories and men who see through my skin.

He's gone.

Or maybe he was never real.

Maybe I built him.

Maybe the trauma carved him out of shadows and I slapped on a hot voice and phantom fangs and begged him to come back because at least when he was there, I felt something.

Now?

I feel… nothing.

So I start to live again.

A real, boring, fucking normal life.

Wake up. Brush teeth. Go to college. Laugh at Ruby's dumbass jokes. Help Shaiza flirt with the library guy. Watch Ifrah cry over her ex's latest post and say "girl, block him" for the tenth time.

Go home. Study. Pet a cat that never came back.

Sleep. Alone.

No drawings.

No fangs.

No fear.

Just me.

Unhaunted.

Unwanted.

Unwatched.

And for the first time…

I miss it.

I miss him.

Even if he was never fucking real.

---

I don't know when it starts.

When the fear dies.

When the nights stop clawing at my throat.

When I stop checking under the bed like some cracked-up kid afraid of the boogeyman.

When I stop waking up breathless, reaching for my phone to snap a photo of a drawing that isn't there.

When I stop waiting for teeth against my skin and shadows behind my curtains.

But it ends.

Quietly.

Almost like it never fucking happened.

The stalker?

Gone.

Like a bad dream that stopped being scary once the sun came up.

Shaiza stops asking. Ruby stops warning. Ifrah moves on.

And I… I fake a laugh. I shrug it off. I pretend like I'm fine.

Hell, I even block that guy on Instagram. The one with the artsy rain stories and the suspicious highlights. Just in case.

And life goes on.

College. Sleep. Friends. Homework. Eat.

Repeat.

I should be relieved, right?

I should be screaming hallelujah and skipping to class like a Disney princess high on life.

I'm not.

Because relief never showed up.

Not even once.

The paranoia faded, yeah. The adrenaline stopped spiking. I'm not flinching every time the floorboard creaks anymore. I sleep with one eye closed and the other still scanning the dark like a dumbass. But it's quiet.

Too fucking quiet.

Shaiza and Ruby, of course, took that as a golden opportunity to play matchmaker like their lives depended on my vagina.

"You seriously never dated anyone?"

"Nope."

"Not even kissed someone?"

"Nope."

"Not even dry-humped a senior in the chem lab?"

"God no. Ew."

"Yeah, you're broken."

They drag me to every party they can, keep pushing me into conversations with their guy friends, even tried to slide my number into some hot barista's phone without asking.

But I'm not interested.

Not even slightly.

Because there's one fucking problem.

He's still in my head.

And I'm not talking about the stalker. That faceless, whispering bastard? He didn't even last three weeks.

I'm talking about him.

The one I saw almost three months ago.

The stranger.

The fucking biker.

The one I locked eyes with for all of three goddamn seconds on a traffic-choked street.

The one whose face shouldn't be burned into my brain like a holy curse—but is.

He never touched me.

Never spoke to me.

Never even smiled.

But somehow, somehow, he tattooed himself onto the inside of my fucking skull, and now I can't walk past a single goddamn biker without hoping it's him.

It's not.

Every time.

Not even close.

But still—I check.

Every black jacket.

Every gloved hand.

Every fucking helmet.

Because somewhere deep down, I still remember that moment like it happened yesterday.

That rev.

That effortless motion.

That face.

And God help me, I had a fucking wet dream about a man I met for three seconds.

One time.

In traffic.

I've never even kissed anyone, and somehow my subconscious decided to throw me into a fantasy where he pulled me onto his bike, leaned me back over the gas tank, and whispered things in that sinful, deep voice I never actually heard—but somehow imagined perfectly.

His hands on my hips.

His lips at my throat.

Leather jacket cold against my bare thighs.

I woke up sweating, panting, trembling—and pissed off.

Because I don't even know his name.

That stalker bullshit? It lasted two weeks and almost killed me.

This guy?

Three months, and I still can't delete his face from my dreams.

And the worst part?

I never told anyone.

Not Ruby. Not Shaiza. Not Ifrah. Not even my cat when he was still alive.

Because how the fuck do you say out loud: "Hey guys, I think I accidentally fell in lust with a traffic biker who might be Satan's hotter cousin"?

You don't.

You suffer.

In silence.

Like a goddamn legend.

But now, now that the stalker era's over and the cops were so fucking professional that they deleted my file and acted like I hallucinated the whole fucking thing—now that everything's gone quiet—

He's back.

Not physically.

Just... in my brain.

Louder than ever.

I can't unsee him.

The way he took off that helmet.

That slow head shake.

That hair.

That fucking brow.

That look.

Like I was nothing.

Like I didn't exist.

And yet it made me feel so seen I wanted to claw my own skin off.

And maybe that's why everyone else feels wrong.

Every guy Shaiza pushes at me.

Every DM from boys who say "hey cutie" and call me "babe" after two fucking sentences.

Every friendly smile in the hallway.

They don't do it.

Because none of them blink like a predator.

None of them have that judge-of-the-world aura.

None of them have that soul-piercing gaze like he could see the damage in me and liked it.

And today—today I caught myself doing the most humiliating thing yet.

I stood at the fucking signal.

Waiting.

Watching.

Hoping.

And a black bike passed.

Leather jacket.

Gloves.

Even the same goddamn model.

My heart slammed. My vision blurred.

But the guy took off his helmet and—nope.

Not him.

Not even close.

And I realized right then—

I'm haunted by a man I never met.

A ghost I built in my own head.

A phantom with tousled hair and killer brows and a look that fucking shattered me without even trying.

And worst part?

I don't want to move on.

Fuck the stalker.

Fuck the chaos.

Fuck being normal.

I want him.

Even if he's nothing more than a glitch in my memory.

Even if he never comes back.

I want that moment again.

That sound. That stare. That silence.

Even if it kills me.

.

____________________________________

The cafeteria is empty.

Dead silent except for the faint hum of the vending machine behind us and the occasional clang from the kitchen. We're sitting in our usual corner booth, half-curled up with contraband fries and bubble tea, our bags dumped on the seats like we live here.

We're bugging class.

Again.

Shadin had shown up this week like he hadn't ghosted the entire stalker era and vanished into whatever-the-fuck abyss he crawls into. Still the same cocky menace. Still charming when he wants to be. Still fucking annoying. He talks to nobody. Literally no one. But when he does talk, it's always me. He drops beside me in the library just to say "You look like shit" and walks away like he's Jesus. And yeah, I admit it—he's good-looking. Sharp jaw, killer smile, a little too confident.

But sometimes I look at him.

Really look.

And I think—he's nothing like him.

If I lined them up together?

Shadin would disappear.

Fucking evaporate.

Because this… isn't about looks. Not really. Not just.

It's about presence. That pull. That gravitational, reality-shifting pull. The kind of aura that makes you forget your own name. Makes you forget that air even exists until you're choking on it.

And my head is full of him again.

Not Shadin.

The stranger.

The man on the bike.

The one I met for three seconds, three fucking months ago.

The one my dreams still refuse to shut the fuck up about.

I chew on a straw, heart thudding louder than it should be, and say, "Listen. I'm going to tell you guys something serious."

All three heads snap toward me. That's the power of rarely saying serious shit—they actually shut up when I do.

"Listen well," I say again, picking at the corner of the table. "So… it's about my cousin's best friend, okay?"

Shaiza narrows her eyes instantly. "This is already sounding familiar."

I ignore her. "She's never dated before. Never even held hands. Not because she's innocent or something, just… it never happened. She doesn't talk about boys unless they're hot."

Ifrah blinks at me slowly. "Wow. Sounds like someone we know."

"Shut up," I snap. "I'm being serious. So—one day, she's at a bus stop. Normal traffic. And then—bam. She sees this guy. Just a guy on a bike. For a few seconds. Not even long enough to say anything. But he was…" I pause, trying to fish out the right word without sounding like a fucking teenager.

Shaiza helps: "Hot?"

"No," I say, and shake my head, breath catching slightly. "Not hot. Unreal. Like... he didn't belong here. Like if I touched him, the world would glitch or something."

Ifrah leans forward. "Cousin who?"

"Cousin's best friend," I say.

Ruby lifts a brow. "What's her name?"

I hesitate. "I… don't know. I just know the story."

Shaiza snorts. "You mean your story, dumbass."

I look away. The corner of my lip twitches. "No. Shut up."

"You're in love," she says.

"I'm not," I snap too fast.

"You are," Ifrah joins.

"No, I'm—Jesus Christ—it's not even about me!"

Ruby raises both hands like she's surrendering to the drama. "So what, you met—she met this dude once and now dreams about him, checks every biker on the street, probably had a wet dream about him—"

I look up sharply. "How the fuck do you know that—"

"YOU'RE IN LOVE," they all scream in harmony.

I slam my palm on the table. "I'M NOT IN FUCKING LOVE."

There's a beat of silence.

And then, Shaiza leans in, all evil grin and taunt. "Wanna bet?"

My eyes narrow. "Bet what?"

"If you're not in love with that random-ass traffic boy," she says, "go on a date."

I stare at her. "Excuse me?"

She shrugs. "Go on a campus date. You know. Talk. Hold hands. Sit on the grass. Do the couple thing."

"I'm gonna vomit."

"Exactly," Ifrah says. "Because you're in loooove."

"Fuck off."

"No really," Ruby adds. "Let's make it a challenge. One date. One guy. Anyone. Just prove he's not living rent-free in your head."

I hesitate.

Because I know what they're trying to do.

They think it's a joke.

They think they're being cute.

But my heart's pounding harder than it should be.

Because if I say yes… and go on a date… and the entire time I'm secretly comparing him to that man—to his jaw, to his eyes, to that impossible aura that turned my knees into fucking water from thirty feet away...

Then what?

I lose?

Or I admit?

Either way—I'm fucked.

And I don't even have the balls to deny it anymore.

Not fully.

So I lean back, eyes flicking up at the ceiling like it might save me.

And say, low and quiet—

"Fine."

---

AUTHOR NOTE 

> DON'T just leave quietly.

If this chapter messed with your head even a little bit—

💬 Drop a damn comment.

🖤 Hit that follow.

📚 Add it to your library.

Be loud. Be unhinged. Be obsessed.

Who the fuck is he?

Are we done with the stalker?

Or is this just the beginning of something worse?

Tell me everything.

I'm watching the comments like she's watching that account. 👀

Next chapter?

You're not ready.

But I'll wait.