THE HUNTER .

---

I stare at the book like it's about to grow legs and start talking.

Because the damn thing was gone. Missing like it evaporated into another realm.

And now?

Now it's just there.

Casually parked on my desk like it never ghosted me.

Open to the same page I last read. A tissue stuck between the sheets like a makeshift bookmark. A faint crease on the corner—my crease.

My handwriting in the margin.

I walk toward it slowly, like it might bite.

Fingers hover over the pages.

I don't touch it.

I just stand there, brain short-circuiting through the options.

How the fuck did it get here?

Maybe it was Mom.

Maybe she found it while cleaning. She has this annoying habit of putting things back without saying a word. Acts like she's God, and I'm a mere mortal not allowed to question her divine decisions.

Even if I ask her, she'll probably just shrug and say,

"You should've looked properly. It was always there."

Classic.

Still, something itches at the back of my neck.

Something sharp and crawling.

Because even if she did find it…

Why would she put it back on my desk, open?

Why not toss it in my drawer like she always does when I leave stuff around?

I glance toward the bed.

The covers are messed up again.

My brain's flicking between exhaustion and mild existential dread when—

The cold hits me.

That weird, low hum of air not where it's supposed to be.

My eyes flick sideways—

And that's when I see it.

The fucking window is open.

Wide.

Wind curling the curtain just enough to move it. Not dramatic. Just… enough. Just creepy.

And through it, across the street—

That house.

That goddamn house.

The one that's been empty for months. Years maybe.

Paint peeling like skin.

Windows covered in dust.

Balcony rails rusted like they've seen shit no one lived to report.

No lights.

No sounds.

No one.

It's supposed to be dead.

But right now, staring at it from my window, I feel like it's breathing.

Not loud.

Not visible.

But there.

Like something's awake in there.

Watching.

Stretching in the dark.

Listening to the sound of my stupid little feet touching the floorboards.

My arms goosebump instantly.

I like the dark. Always have.

I like storms and horror films and broken streetlights.

But this?

This doesn't feel like darkness.

It feels like presence.

Like someone's inside that dead house.

Like something knows I'm looking.

I step back, heartbeat crawling into my ears.

Then—fast, before my mind can spiral deeper—

I yank the curtain shut.

Hard.

The cloth slaps against the frame like I just sealed something in. Or out.

I stand there a moment, breath shallow, brain sprinting.

Then I walk to the bed.

Mechanically.

Like sleep will fix it all.

I lay down.

Tug the blanket up.

Stare at the ceiling for way too long.

Everything feels… off.

Tilted.

Like I'm living in a world that used to be mine but someone else is walking through it now. Touching things.

Leaving books.

Opening windows.

Sending messages.

> "You're welcome. But now you owe me."

The words echo in my head again.

Maybe it wasn't Cassandra.

Maybe it wasn't the Dean.

Maybe it wasn't even human.

Fuck.

I flip onto my side.

Blanket to chin.

Eyes wide.

I try to sleep.

But the silence in my room doesn't feel silent anymore.

It feels occupied.

.

---

Something wet touches my nose.

I twitch.

Then again—this time, a rough lick.

I groan and peel one eye open.

Boo Boo is perched on my chest, licking my nose like I'm breakfast.

"You're lucky you're cute," I mutter, voice hoarse, dragging him into my arms and pressing a kiss to his tiny, judgmental face. He purrs like he owns the fucking world.

And maybe he does. He did bite my brother ,That's power.

I lie there for a second, the light sneaking in through the curtain, making my retinas scream. My head feels like it's filled with static and half-formed nightmares. I stretch, groan again, check my phone.

Saturday.

And then—

Shit.

I bolt upright.

"Fuck! Fuuuck!"

Boo Boo jumps off me like I just declared war.

Because it hits me—

My project.

The one due Monday morning.

The one I haven't even started.

The one Dr. Vaughan is going to personally murder me for, then resurrect me just to fail me with a smile.

And I know—I fucking know—those three witches I call friends have already finished theirs. Probably printed it on gold-edged paper with charts and references and signed it with glitter pens. Meanwhile, I haven't even opened the damn doc file.

My jaw tightens. A vein pulses near my temple.

I feel the hiss of frustration, like a wire tightening behind my teeth.

I swing my legs over the bed and march into the bathroom, not even bothering to check my face. I brush my teeth like the toothbrush insulted my family.

Spit. Rinse. Glare.

Then I head downstairs, still in my oversized hoodie and yesterday's pajama pants, hair tied in the laziest knot ever created by human hands. Boo Boo trails after me like he's supervising.

The kitchen is already warm with morning light. Smells like toast. Like nothing is falling apart.

Lies.

I pour myself a mug of coffee like it might rewrite my fate.

And that's when Mom walks in.

She pauses in the doorway, giving me that once-over only moms have perfected. The one that scans you like a metal detector and immediately finds all your sins.

Her eyes narrow.

Her brows knit together like they're forming a conspiracy.

"What's that on your neck?" she asks, tilting her head.

I freeze mid-sip.

"What?"

She steps closer.

"Something's there. Looks like…"

She squints.

"Bitten?"

I slam the mug on the counter.

"It's that damn bug again," I growl, rubbing at the spot. "It was there yesterday too. Probably mutated. Should be paying rent by now."

She raises a brow but doesn't push.

She's smart like that. She knows when to retreat.

I storm out before she can comment further and crash into the living room.

I grab the remote, flop on the couch, and turn on the TV.

Bad idea.

The first thing on screen:

A news anchor, slick hair and a serious face, going full drama mode.

"—And in the latest update on the vigilante case—"

Click.

The screen goes black.

Nope.

Not today.

I lean back and rub my face with both hands. The taste of dread mixes with the coffee in my stomach.

Project.

Bite.

Vigilantes.

Fucking Cassandra.

The Dean.

The message.

What the hell is happening.

I glance at Boo Boo. He's on the armrest now, licking his paw like he's above all of this.

"I'm doomed," I tell him.

He doesn't disagree.

I bury my face in the couch cushion.

I have exactly one day to build an entire academic project out of the ashes of my procrastination and mental breakdown. And instead of working, I'm sitting here worrying about invisible teeth on my neck, anonymous messages, vigilante headlines, and a weirdly seductive best friend who flirts like it's his full-time job.

I am unwell.

Spiritually. Academically. Biologically.

I'm so fucking doomed.

---

I've been staring at the same white screen for hours.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

For. Hours.

It's now Sunday night.

And not just "oh, it's Sunday night, I should sleep soon."

No. It's the unholy hour.

The cursed one.

11:52 PM.

Eight fucking minutes from full-blown academic doom.

The only thing on the document?

> fuck it

That's it. Two words. Bolded. Center-aligned. Like a declaration of war.

I wrote other stuff, sure.

Paragraphs. Quotes. Lines that could've passed as semi-intelligent.

Then I deleted them.

One by one.

Watched them vanish like they personally betrayed me.

The blinking cursor on the screen feels like it's judging me.

Every blink is a middle finger.

Every second I don't type, it blinks again.

Mocking me.

Across the room, Boo Boo's curled up like a cozy little shit on my bed, purring in his sleep. The audacity.

"You're so lucky," I mutter, half to him, half to the gods I've clearly pissed off.

He flicks his tail like he's listening.

"You don't have to go to class and hear lectures about dead white men who wrote about virtue and morality while cheating on their wives with barmaids and boys."

No response. Just deeper purring.

"You don't have to fake-smile at Dr. Vaughan while she rants about Elizabethan drama like it's porn for the soul."

Still nothing. Boo Boo is dead asleep. Blissfully unaware of my academic spiral.

I groan and drop my head against the edge of the desk.

"You sleep all day. You eat on time. You scream when your food bowl's empty and someone actually gives a shit."

A pause.

I peek at him.

He's upside down now, belly exposed, twitching one paw in a dream.

"And the best part?" I say, voice rising like I'm giving a TED Talk to my own cat. "You don't have to write a twenty-page research paper on 'The Subversive Feminine Voice in 19th Century Gothic Fiction' that's due in less than—"

I glance at the time.

11:56 PM.

"—fuck. Four minutes to Monday."

I slam my forehead gently against the desk.

"I haven't even started the outline. I haven't picked which authors I'm focusing on. I don't have a thesis. I don't even know if Mary Shelley counts or if that's too basic. I'm screwed."

Boo Boo lets out a soft merp sound. He sounds concerned.

Or amused.

Or probably dreaming about tuna again.

I turn my head toward him, face still mashed against the table.

"You can even have a girlfriend someday if you want, you know? No lectures. No heartbreak. Just little ginger cats coming over for snacks and a casual ass sniff."

His eyes crack open like he heard that.

I blink at him.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm fucking jealous of you, okay?"

He yawns like he's bored of my monologue and curls tighter.

I sigh and sit back up.

The laptop screen glares back at me like a monster I'm too tired to fight.

Cursor still blinking.

fuck it

That's all I've got to offer the academic world right now.

A literary student with nothing but an F-word to her name.

My temples throb.

Headache blooms behind my eyes like something alive.

I reach for my coffee cup.

It's cold.

Of course.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back onto the table again.

Not in a dramatic way. Not even angry anymore.

Just tired.

Heavy.

Drained in a way caffeine can't fix.

Outside, the wind presses against the windows.

The night feels thick.

Like the kind that swallows sound and stretches time.

I mutter into the wooden desk, "I'm not gonna make it."

And for the first time tonight—

I mean it.

---

I jolt awake like someone just slammed a fucking cymbal inside my skull.

Heart racing. Mouth dry. Vision blurry.

And for a split second, I don't even know what day it is.

Then—

The silence.

That heavy, slow, suffocating silence.

No morning alarm.

No Boo Boo pawing at my face.

No noise from downstairs.

Just—

Silence.

And that's when it hits me.

The kind of realization that makes your stomach flip and your blood go cold.

I sit up too fast.

Blanket tangles around my legs like it wants me to suffer.

My head throbs. My throat feels like I swallowed dust.

I whip around and grab my phone from under the pillow, screen blazing into my retina like it's about to slap me—

7:54 AM

MONDAY.

The project.

The fucking project.

I was supposed to email it to Dr. Vaughan by now.

"FUCK—" I shout into the empty room, dragging my hands down my face like they can erase the mess I am.

I throw the blanket off, stumble out of bed like I'm drunk on disaster, heart thundering loud enough to summon a god.

The laptop on the table is still open.

White screen.

Cursor blinking.

Mocking.

Still.

> fuck it

That's all I wrote.

And now, that phrase is about to be etched into my fucking gravestone.

Because Dr. Vaughan?

She's not going to just fail me.

She's going to bury me.

In front of the whole goddamn class.

With a smile.

And a monologue about how "potential is useless when it's lazy."

I slap the laptop shut like that'll somehow solve the crime I committed against deadlines.

I pace for two seconds. Exactly two.

Then sprint to the bathroom.

Shower's ice cold because the universe is clearly punishing me for every bad decision I've ever made, including being born.

I rinse my hair like a war crime.

Brush my teeth with the aggression of a murderer.

Throw on the first hoodie I can find—inside out, obviously, because why the fuck not.

By the time I rush downstairs, my heart's in my throat and my brain's still buffering.

"MOM!" I yell, grabbing my bag, nearly tripping on Boo Boo's tail. "Why didn't you wake me up?! I'm so late—"

"I just woke up too!" her voice echoes from the kitchen, muffled and unapologetic.

I storm in, dripping wet, hoodie backwards, rage levels at max.

"I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR BREAKFAST, I'M GOING!"

"You'll faint!" she calls out.

"I'LL DIE FASTER IF I STAY HERE!"

I don't even hear what she yells next. I'm already bolting out the front door like I'm being hunted by fate itself.

Outside—

It's grey.

The kind of sky that looks like it's holding in a headache.

The street is unusually quiet.

And that's when I notice—

No bus.

No rumble. No honk. No smoke.

The bus stop's empty except for one grandma and a dog who looks just as pissed as I am.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter, dragging my hands through my wet hair.

I sit on the bench. Rain spits down in gentle, sarcastic drizzles—like the sky is laughing at me too.

I check the bus app.

Delayed. Traffic jam. Estimated arrival: 8:33.

I stare at the screen, breathing hard through my nose.

8:33.

The class starts at 9

I'm already late.

And the project?

Still a goddamn graveyard of regret on my hard drive.

The light drizzle turns into something heavier.

Slow and steady.

The sky doesn't crack open dramatically.

It just keeps dripping, like it's not even trying.

Like it knows there's nothing romantic about failure.

I pull the hoodie tighter around me. My hair's soaked. My sneakers are already damp. My socks feel like slugs.

Across the road, cars are backed up, horns honking like a symphony of despair.

The bus isn't coming.

Not soon enough.

And I know—

I know when I walk into that classroom, Vaughan's eyes will laser through me like she's been waiting her whole life to professionally assassinate me.

And she will.

Because I deserve it.

Because I slept.

Because I fucking slept.

I sit on the bench, hoodie soaked, sneakers squelching, and time bleeding out like I've slit the morning's throat. The rain's light now—just a whisper—but cold enough to numb my fingers.

The traffic's still a joke. The bus? Nowhere in fucking sight.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes empty as the street in front of me.

And that's when—

The wind shifts.

The air presses different. Like something just exhaled close to my neck.

The wind rushes past me, cool and restless, tangling through my hair as I sit at the bus stop.

It smells like rain—thick, heavy, the kind that promises to break open any second now.

I should be enjoying this weather, but the tension in my gut won't let me—

Shaiza: Where the fuck are you?

Shaiza: Class is about to start.

Shaiza: HELLO??

I sigh, tapping out a quick reply.

Me: Traffic.

The road in front of me is a mess. Cars crammed together, honking aggressively, moving at a snail's pace. I scan the first row lazily, not really expecting anything interesting.

And then—

The sound hits me.

Low. Deep. Sharp enough to cut through the noise.

A rev.

Not whiny like the scooters.

Not clunky like the cabs.

This is something else.

Something hungry.

My head turns before I realize I'm moving. Like instinct.

And there it is.

A bike.

Not just any bike—a BMW M 1000 RR. Black. Sleek. Deadly. A machine made for speed, for power, for someone who knows exactly how to control it.

The biker sits on it, one gloved hand resting casually on the throttle. He's dressed in all black—fitted leather jacket, gloves, dark jeans, heavy boots. Typical. Just another guy on a bike, waiting for the traffic to clear.

I barely pay him any attention.

But then—he moves.

He lifts his hands to his helmet, fingers curling around the edges, and pulls it off.

And that's when everything shifts.

Dark hair tumbles out, tousled from the helmet. He shakes his head slightly, and the wind catches on the strands, pushing them back. Then, as if out of habit, he runs a hand through it—raking his fingers through the mess, pushing it back in one smooth, effortless motion.

Something in my chest tightens.

Not because of the movement itself—it's nothing special. But the way it looks.

Like it belongs in a movie.

Like it was meant to be watched.

And then—he lifts his head.

And my breath catches.

My body locks up, lungs refusing to work, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.

At first glance, he's beautiful—so striking it almost doesn't make sense.

His face has inhuman symmetry, like it was sculpted with precision sharp enough to cut. His skin—flawless. Smooth, but not delicate—there's something dangerous underneath it, like violence resting just beneath the surface.

But it's his eyebrows that gut me.

Dark. Smooth. So perfectly threaded it's almost offensive. Like even chaos knows better than to touch him.

His left brow sits slightly higher than the right, carving a natural expression of cold scrutiny into his face—like he's always analyzing, always unimpressed.

The arch is sharp but not exaggerated—just enough to make every tiny twitch of expression look effortless, arrogant, lethal.

The right brow, straighter and a little lower, adds contrast—one side assessing, the other calculating.

He was built to judge the world—and he doesn't even have to try.

And then—his eyes.

Dark brown, almost black where the shadows hit, but when the light catches them, there's depth. A dangerous, warm, endless depth you could fall into and never find your way out of.

They're deep-set, almond-shaped, slightly upturned at the outer corners—predator's eyes. Not eyes that watch. Eyes that devour.

His brow bone casts a shadow over them, sharpening his stare until it feels like something physical. Something cutting. His lower lids are slightly hollowed, adding to the brutality of it.

His lashes—dark, thick, indecently framing his irises—make every glance heavy. Devastating.

When he blinks, it's slow, controlled, like a lion closing its eyes mid-hunt.

He doesn't look like a man used to kindness.

He looks like something that watches, waits, and only moves when necessary.

What the fuck is he?

The back of my neck prickles, something hot and unfamiliar curling at the base of my spine. My hands clench against my lap, trying to steady myself against the sudden weight pressing down on my chest.

And then—he looks at me.

A single glance. Nothing more.

But it wrecks me.

His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. Not curious. Not interested. Just aware. Like I exist. Like I am here.

And then—he looks away.

Like I'm nothing.

Like I was never here at all.

The light turns green. The bike growls beneath him, a deep, throaty purr that vibrates through the air.

And then, just like that—he's gone.

The first drop of rain lands on my skin.

But I already feel like I'm drenched.

The sound of his bike fades into the distance, swallowed by the roar of the city.

But my heartbeat?

That stays.

It's loud—too loud—rushing through my ears, pulsing beneath my skin like a physical force. I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my lap, trying to steady myself. What the fuck just happened?

I've seen good-looking men before. Plenty of them. This city is full of them—polished, arrogant, men who walk like the world owes them something.

But this?

This was different.

That man—whoever the hell he is—wasn't just beautiful.

He was something else entirely.

Something that doesn't belong in real life.

I feel strange. Unsettled. There's no reason for my pulse to be like this, no reason for my skin to feel tight, my stomach to feel like it's been twisted into a knot. He didn't even do anything.

Didn't smirk.

Didn't hold my gaze.

Didn't even acknowledge me.

And yet.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the feeling. It doesn't work.

My phone buzzes again.

Shaiza: Are you dead?

Shaiza: Did someone kidnap you?

Shaiza: Blink twice if you need saving.

I blink. Not twice, but several times—because my brain is still trying to process what just happened.

Me: I'm on my way.

Shoving my phone into my bag, I push myself off the bench, forcing my legs to move. The bus still hasn't come, but I can't just sit here anymore. I need to move. I need to do something that doesn't involve sitting in the same place he just looked at me.

The wind picks up, cold and sharp against my skin. 

And the entire way, no matter how much I try to push it aside, my mind won't stop replaying it.

The way he pulled off his helmet.

The way he shook his hair, ran a hand through it.

The way his brows carved his face into something beautiful and cruel at the same time.

The way his eyes—dark, endless, predatory—met mine for just a second before dismissing me like I was nothing.

Like I was just another passing glimpse.

I swallow hard, pushing the thoughts away. I don't care. He's gone. The moment is over.

And I'll never see him again.

Right?