THE HUNTER .

The news anchor's voice cuts through the quiet like a blade dipped in oil-too smooth, too sharp.

"Millionaire Arsenio Calvini was found dead in his penthouse in Milan late last night. Sources say the case follows the same pattern as four previous vigilante killings-where the victims appear to have shot themselves, but forensic details confirm otherwise..."

I don't even bother sitting up. My legs are sprawled over the length of the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, remote lost somewhere between the cushions. I'm in one of those oversized hoodies that feel like armor on bad days and like a hug when I don't want to be touched.

"Fifth case," the anchor continues, voice low, controlled, almost too calm for what they're saying. "Police suspect the killer may be the same individual responsible for the string of high-profile murders spanning three countries. The common thread? Every victim had evaded justice-powerful men accused of crimes, protected by their wealth. Their assets-vanished overnight. Their deaths-staged as suicide. But each confession... recorded. Each secret, spilled."

My eyes flick toward the screen, still lying there like I can ignore it if I don't move. I watch without meaning to, chin propped on the arm of the couch. My hair's messy. My breath's steady. But something under my ribs presses a little when the anchor says the next part.

"In a pre-recorded video obtained by local authorities, Calvini admits to raping multiple women over the past decade, often using money and influence to escape conviction. Police assume the video was taken shortly before his death. No suspects. No witnesses. No trail. Only a shadow-moving like justice."

"God," my dad mutters from his recliner, leaning forward with his arms resting on his thighs. His eyes haven't left the screen. "He fucking deserved it."

"dude," my mother snaps softly from beside him, her brows drawn tight. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's the truth."

"He was murdered."

"He was filth," my father replies, not even flinching. "Money makes monsters think they're invincible. That man raped women. Destroyed lives. Bought his way out like he was god. Whoever killed him-hell, I'd shake his damn hand."

My mom exhales sharply, shaking her head. "You're talking like he's a hero. He's a killer."

"And the world made him one," my dad says. "You think justice works the same for people with power? It doesn't. Not in this lifetime."

I sigh and sit up finally, legs crossed, groaning at the weight of it all. I lean forward to reach for the remote under my thigh.

"You gonna change the channel now?" my dad asks without looking at me.

"Yeah," I mutter, thumbing the button like it's a loaded gun. "I'm not in the mood for poetic murder stories."

"Afraid you'll agree with him too much?" he says, almost teasing.

"I'm afraid I'll enjoy it too much," I shoot back.

The screen goes black. I flip to something mindless, some food show with background jazz and plates I can't afford. But my mind's still stuck there-in that penthouse in Milan. In the smoke curling from a gun that doesn't match the fingerprints. In the voice of a man admitting horror like it was breakfast.

It bothers me more than I want it to.

Not because I care that he died.

But because a part of me thinks good.

A part of me thinks he deserved worse.

And that... that's the part that makes me uncomfortable.

Because I've never believed in heroes.

And this killer? He's not pretending to be one.

He's just cleaning the rot.

I slump back into the couch. My dad's gone quiet again. My mom gets up and disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about the world going insane.

The silence that follows isn't peaceful. It's thick. Like the walls know something. Like the shadows want to speak.

I tell myself not to care.

But something about this fifth case-it doesn't feel distant. It feels... close. Like someone is building a pattern I haven't fully seen yet.

And whoever the hell this killer is...

They know how to erase footprints and still leave blood in the air.

I reach for my phone without thinking, scrolling through nothing, pretending I'm distracted.

But my mind?

My mind is on the whisper of a bullet that doesn't make a sound.

And the kind of man who smiles while pulling the trigger for all the right reasons.

I toss the remote to the other side of the couch like it just said something offensive. The TV's on low volume now, a documentary about whales or some shit-something moody and blue and full of distant, echoing sounds. My head's still somewhere between vigilante justice and Milan bloodstains when my phone buzzes.

Private number.

Of course.

I swipe without thinking. "Hello?"

Nothing.

I wait, eyebrow twitching. "Hello?"

Still nothing. Not even static.

And then-

A breath.

One, slow, fucking deliberate inhale like they're right there, mouth to the mic, like they want me to feel it dripping into my ear.

My spine goes straight. "Fuck off," I snap, and end the call instantly.

My dad looks up from his chair. "Who was that?"

"Some creep," I mutter, standing. "Just breathed into the phone. Like some low-budget horror movie stalker."

He snorts. "You attract weirdos."

"Thanks, dad. That's the confidence boost I needed tonight."

He grins, then returns to his news app or crossword or whatever middle-aged chaos he's into tonight.

I don't wait around. I make my way upstairs and close my door, then lock it with a solid click. Not because I'm scared-just annoyed. The kind of annoyed that clings to your skin and makes you itch in places you can't reach.

My room smells like lavender spray and my favorite old hoodie. I flick on the desk lamp, still holding my phone, still thinking about that breath. What kind of psycho-

Ping.

An email notification pops up. University reminder.

"PROJECT DUE MONDAY," 

it says in all caps like it's screaming at me through the screen.

And right underneath it: "Submission before 10am sharp. No late entries."

I stare.

Blink.

Check the date.

"Tomorrow is Friday," I whisper like it's a death sentence. "Tomorrow. Is. Fucking. Friday."

And then I scream into my palms.

"Fuck Shakespeare. Fuck literature. Fuck ME."

I pause.

Blink again.

"Okay, no-Jesus. That was a tongue slip. Rewind. Rewind that."

I rub my face so hard I might erase myself. The panic creeps up behind me like a smug bitch with sharp heels. I haven't written a single goddamn word of that project. Not a thesis. Not a plan. Just vibes and caffeine and the constant urge to commit academic homicide.

I let out a long groan, stumbling toward my bed like a war survivor.

"I need a shower," I mutter. "Maybe boiling water will make me a better person."

I peel off my shirt and toss it in the corner. My legs move on autopilot toward the bathroom. The cold tiles slap my feet. The light is too bright. The mirror doesn't like me right now.

I turn on the water and step in before it's ready, because I'm too tired to wait. The spray is sharp and shocking, pinpricks on my skin like it's punishing me for existing. And honestly? Fair.

Minutes later, I emerge towel-wrapped, hair wet, skin pink from the heat. I crash onto the bed face-first, arms sprawled, the towel barely hanging onto my body like it's giving up on life too.

The project still exists.

The phone call still happened.

And I still want to scream into the void.

But at least I'm clean.

Small wins.

Very, very small wins.

____

The wind knocks softly at my window at first. Just the lightest brush of night fingers tapping against glass. It pulls me from my sleep like a whisper dragging its nails across my spine.

I roll over, eyes heavy, brain fogged, barely conscious-but the knocking continues. A gust of wind pushes again, more urgent this time, and I blink my eyes open.

My curtains flutter like something moved through them. There's a chill in the room I don't remember inviting in.

I sit up slowly. My heart ticks a little faster than I like.

The window's not fully shut. It rattles slightly in its frame like it's trying to tell me something. I slide off the bed barefoot, skin prickling with every step on the cold floor. The air feels off-charged, almost metallic, like it rained somewhere far away.

I reach the window.

And stop breathing.

There's a man standing on my lawn.

Pitch black clothing. Still as death. Just... standing there, right under the crooked old tree that throws long arms across our yard.

I can't see his face. His head is tilted slightly up. He's looking straight at me.

Right at me.

The way statues look at you in museums-judging silently, like they know every secret you don't even know you have. Like they're waiting for you to blink.

I can't move. My chest is tight, lungs forgotten. My fingers hover near the lock of the window but don't touch it. I don't even know if I can scream. I don't even know if I should.

Then-he steps forward.

One step.

Two.

Three.

The kind of movement that doesn't make a sound but echoes anyway.

He reaches the edge of the grass, then the base of the house.

Then-

He disappears.

No sound.

No blur.

Just-gone.

A creak rises from beneath my window.

Wood. 

Movement. 

He's right under me.

Right fucking under me.

A noise cracks the air like bones snapping in the dark.

BANG. 

BANG. 

BANG.

I gasp-finally. And then I jolt.

My sheets are around my legs.

My room is still.

The morning sun is bleeding weakly through the curtains. My pillow's half on the floor.

"Arshila!" my mom's voice follows the sharp knocking at my door. "You're gonna be late for class again, you little brat-get your ass up!"

I blink.

Then groan and fall back into the bed with a deep, cursed sigh. "Fuck my subconscious."

Mom stomps away muttering something about irresponsibility and how she's not going to come upstairs every damn morning like I'm a royal baby who needs a parade to wake up.

Still staring at the ceiling, I rub my face hard and try to push the dream out of my skull. But that man... that stare... It didn't feel like a dream. It felt like someone pressed the moment onto my skin like a thumbprint.

Still half-dead, I drag myself out of bed and shuffle toward the bathroom, eyes half-shut.

I grab my toothbrush and shove it into my mouth like it personally offended me. Everything feels gritty and stupid and wrong.

I strip and turn on the shower, needing the sting of hot water to pull me fully into this day I already don't want to be a part of.

I step under.

And hiss in pain.

Like... actual pain.

Like water's hitting a fresh wound.

I blink through the steam and step back, running my hand over my neck, fingertips grazing over-

What the fuck?

I lean closer to the foggy mirror, wipe away the steam, and stare.

Two red marks. Close. Small. Deep. Right on the curve between my jaw and collarbone. Like-

"Nope," I whisper, eyes narrowing. "No. We're not doing vampire shit today."

But I stare at it for too long. The shape, the bruising, the ache under it. The kind of mark someone leaves when they bite hard enough to mean something.

I laugh-hollow and a little loud, echoing off the tiles. "Jesus, I need sleep. It's a bug bite. Probably a fast-bruising one. I'm going insane. It's fine. This is fine."

I force myself to ignore it, even as it throbs under the hot water. Even as I feel it pulsing like it's alive.

I scrub down, teeth clenched, and finish the shower even though every drop feels like punishment.

When I step out and towel off, the bite mark is still there. Still raw. Still mocking.

But I don't give it another thought.

Not really.

I throw on jeans, a faded black hoodie, and sneakers with one lace permanently shorter than the other. Toss my hair into a messy ponytail. Slap some lotion on my face and pretend that's skincare.

Downstairs, the smell of toast and eggs doesn't make me feel less like death.

I scarf down whatever's hot on the plate while Baba reads the newspaper and hums at the politics like it's gossip.

Mom eyes my hoodie like it personally offended her aesthetic. "That's what you're wearing?"

I shove another piece of toast in my mouth. "It's not a fashion show."

She mutters something about standards and looking "like a civilian in a crime documentary" but doesn't fight it.

I throw my bag over my shoulder and grab my phone 

I step out the door.

And don't look back.

I've got a project to fake, a brain to force into academic labor, and a weird-ass dream that I refuse to think about anymore. The mark on my neck? Forgotten. Not important. Not real.

Probably.

Maybe.

Fuck.

The bus arrives, brakes hissing, doors groaning open like they resent their own existence. I step in, gripping the handle as I move toward the middle. It's not crowded. A small mercy.

The engine hums, the world outside blurring past the windows. I let myself sink into the rhythm of movement, the slight sway of the bus, the dull murmur of conversations behind me. My grip on the metal bar loosens.

And then-

A jolt.

A sharp, violent break.

The air disappears from my lungs before I can even process it. My balance is fucking gone. My feet betray me, sliding forward as the entire bus lurches, and before I can catch myself-

I crash onto something solid.

No-someone.

And not just anyone.

My hands instinctively clutch at broad shoulders, my legs awkwardly tangled as I end up sprawled on a lap that is, frankly, way too firm. A strong grip steadies me, fingers pressing against my waist, keeping me from completely face-planting.

Holy. Fuck.

I snap my head up, and that's when I see him.

Dark brown eyes-intense, unwavering-staring right at me. A mask covers the lower half of his face, leaving only his sharp gaze and the messy strands of dark hair that fall over his forehead.

The bus moves again, but I don't.

I can't.

I am sitting on this man.

And his thighs-holy fucking hell-are solid. Not bodybuilder huge, not obnoxiously muscular, but just... the right kind of strong. Like the type that could ruin lives. The type that should not feel this good beneath me.

My throat is so damn dry.

Before I can figure out how to get my shit together and move, he leans in slightly, voice slipping through the mask in a tone that is low but not too deep-smooth, effortless.

"Do you plan to sit here forever?"

Oh. Oh.

A shiver rips down my spine. 

My brain? Completely fried. 

My dignity? Dead. 

My soul? Probably leaving my body.

I am still on his lap.

Still sitting here like an idiot, blinking at him, my body refusing to function.

What the fuck just happened?