THE HUNTER .

.

---

How the fuck does ink disappear?

I sit on the edge of the concrete planter outside the literature building, one hand gripping the edge, the other still shaking around the strap of my bag like it owes me answers.

That page was not blank this morning.

I saw it.

I touched it.

I stared into my own face drawn in black ink like someone loved me too much or hated me too well.

And now? Nothing.

Not a line. Not a shade. Not a fucking whisper of graphite or pen. Just a plain sheet of paper like it's always been blank. Like I imagined the whole damn thing.

How?

How is that possible in this twenty-first fucking century? What am I in, some cursed notebook? A twisted ghost story? A fever dream no one else can see?

Ink doesn't just… vanish.

It stains. It lasts.

And mine? Mine ran.

Shaiza sits next to me with a cautious silence that says she still doesn't know if I'm spiraling or just tired. Ruby and Ifrah are whispering about me not-so-subtly a few feet away. The occasional student walks by, glancing at me like they're afraid I might bite.

Maybe I fucking will.

"I think she's really gone insane," Ifrah says under her breath, but not low enough.

"She needs sleep or dick or a demon exorcism, in that order," Ruby mutters.

I look up slowly. "You know I can hear you, right?"

Shaiza sighs and rubs her temples. "Look, babe, I'm saying this with love... but maybe you should start dating."

I blink. "What?"

"Yeah." Ruby leans in, too eager. "Like an actual relationship. You've never had one. Never even held hands, as far as we know."

"I've had other priorities," I snap.

"Yeah, like your cat," Ifrah mutters.

"Don't—" I warn.

"Okay, but for real," Shaiza says, cutting through the tension. "Maybe all this isolation and fiction obsession is frying your brain. You're a grown-ass woman and you've never even been kissed. I'm just saying, a little serotonin might help your delulu ass."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not fucking delulu."

Ruby crosses her arms. "You're talking about vampire bite marks and invisible drawings and ghosts stealing your cat. What are we supposed to think?"

"I'm telling the truth!" I shout, finally snapping to my feet.

A couple students turn their heads. I don't care. Let them look. Let them stare. Let them fucking see what madness looks like when it's not painted in pastel sadness.

"Why the fuck don't you believe me?" I growl.

Shaiza looks up, calm but firm. "Because there's nothing to believe, babe. You're not giving us anything real. No video. No photos. No drawings. Just—words. And fear. And you freaking out."

"Okay, fine!" I yell. "Maybe you don't believe the vanishing ink. Maybe you think Boo Boo ran away. Maybe you think I'm making up the shadows in my room and the way I feel someone breathing next to me when I sleep—fine. But what about this?!"

I jerk down my collar and jab my finger at the bite mark on my neck.

"Explain this."

They go quiet.

Then Ruby smirks. "Could be a bug."

"Could be a human," Ifrah adds, eyes narrowing. "Could be Shadin."

My snarl is instant. "I will rip your nose ring off your face and shove it down your throat if you say that again."

"Touchy," Ruby mumbles.

"I'm not hiding anything. Especially not Shadin. And if you think I'd lie about this—"

"You're not lying," Shaiza says quickly. "You're just… stressed. Maybe the bite mark is real, maybe it's not. But people lose their cats all the time. Weird shit happens. Maybe Boo Boo will come back."

My hands clench. "And if he doesn't?"

She shrugs. "Then I'm sorry. But that still doesn't mean something supernatural is out to get you."

"And the drawings?"

"Maybe you dreamt it."

"You think I dreamt it?" My voice drops to a bitter whisper. "You think I dreamt up two perfectly rendered portraits of me sleeping, one placed under my bed, the other inside a book I haven't touched in a week? That I hallucinated paper?"

Ruby throws up her hands. "You guys want to believe it's a ghost or a stalker. I think it's a crush. A secret admirer. Probably Shadin."

"Jesus FUCKING Christ," I snap, shoving my bag onto my shoulder. "You want proof?"

I swing my gaze between them, slow and dangerous. "Fine. I'll bring you proof. Or else—I swear—I'm going crazy. And if this shit is just in my head? Then I'm about to fucking die with it."

The bell rings somewhere in the distance, loud and hollow. We all flinch at it like it's a gunshot.

Class.

As if that matters right now.

Still, we move. Bodies on autopilot. Minds half-present. I don't even know what room we're walking toward—I don't care. I'm not in the class anymore. I'm not here anymore.

I'm inside the spiral now.

And all I can think is—

How the fuck does ink disappear?

How does a drawing just evaporate like it never existed?

No heat. No tearing. No smudges. No water damage. Nothing.

Just absence.

Was it made of ash?

Invisible ink?

Magic?

What kind of ink disappears only when someone else looks at it?

It wasn't in my head. I know the details too well. The shadows under my jaw. The fold in my shirt. The specific way my lips were parted. You don't hallucinate detail like that. You don't conjure a whole self-portrait from dream dust.

Unless… unless something wants me to think I imagined it.

Unless it wants me alone.

Because alone means vulnerable. Alone means no backup. Alone means prey.

I sit at the back of the classroom, not even pretending to open my notebook.

The fluorescent lights hum above me like they're mocking.

And I feel it again—that weight on my skin. Like breath that doesn't belong to me. Like eyes behind me. Like something out there is laughing.

Ink doesn't just vanish.

And if it did—

Then something else is writing the rules now.

And I need to figure out who.

Before I become the next thing that disappears.

I think about it the entire fucking day.

While I'm in class, not hearing a word.

While my friends whisper behind my back like I've officially gone off the rails.

While the city passes by outside the bus window in dull gray streaks of smog and headlights.

No clues. No answers. Just the same gnawing thought on repeat:

Ink doesn't vanish.

But it did.

And now it's all I can think about.

I sit in the bus, chin in my hand, eyes out the window but seeing nothing. I'm too deep inside my head, spiraling through theories like I'm solving a murder that hasn't happened yet but is already leaving blood behind.

I have nothing to go on. Not really.

No leads. No witness. No Boo Boo.

Just two drawings that shouldn't exist—and one that fucking vanished in my hand.

Fear creeps in around the edges like cold air through a crack in the wall. Quiet but sharp. Every time I try to push it away, it just slithers back up my spine. I'm scared. I'm really fucking scared.

But being scared doesn't do shit.

It doesn't stop the dreams or explain the bite marks or bring Boo Boo back. It doesn't solve a mystery or protect you when something's watching you sleep.

All fear does is make you softer.

Slower.

Easier to hurt.

And I don't want to be easy to hurt anymore.

The bus hisses to a stop near the block. I get off like I always do. Bag slung on my shoulder. Hoodie zipped halfway. Same cracked pavement under my shoes, same rusted gate two houses down. But today, everything feels off.

Like the air is too still.

Like the silence is heavier.

I walk the last stretch to my house, jaw clenched, trying to shake the feeling that something is behind me—even though I know it's not. Even though I check. Twice.

My fingers are cold when I push the door open.

"Coffee," I call out immediately. My voice sounds rougher than I expected.

Mom's in the kitchen, humming some old song she won't admit she likes. She turns slightly, wiping her hands on a towel. "Rough day?"

I drop my bag on the dining chair. "Where the fuck did Boo Boo go?"

She sighs, not annoyed. Just tired. Like we've already had this conversation too many times.

"Let's not do this again," she says gently. "It's better to stop thinking about him for now."

Better.

Right.

Like I can just rip out a piece of my chest and pretend it didn't belong there.

I nod anyway. Wordless. Hopeless.

Take the coffee and walk upstairs like a robot.

My room greets me with that same quiet wrongness it's had all week. The same faint scent of laundry and something I can't place—like metal and sleep.

I close the door behind me.

Then I check.

Again.

Under the bed. Behind the curtains. Inside the closet. I even knock on the wall panel near my desk, because who the fuck knows anymore?

Nothing.

No one.

And still, I don't feel alone.

There's a pressure in the air. Like the room is holding its breath. Waiting.

I strip out of my jeans and shirt slowly. My skin feels sore, like it's been carrying too much weight. Like I'm bruised all over but can't see the marks yet.

The bathroom's mirror is fogged when I step in, and the light flickers once as I turn on the shower.

Hot water hits me like a slap and a hug at the same time.

It runs over my skin, down my spine, into the hollow parts of me. Soaks my hair, glides down my chest, swirls over my thighs. And for a moment, I just let myself exist in it.

No words.

No voices.

No theories.

Just heat and water and the thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

But my mind doesn't stop for long.

Because even naked under the spray, even raw and rinsed and vulnerable, I'm still turning over the details like puzzle pieces that don't quite fit.

The first drawing—the one I found under the bed.

I remember touching it. Not just seeing it. Touching it. My fingers smudging the corner, running over the lines, holding it too tight.

And then I left it. On the desk. Stepped out to help Mom fold laundry.

And when I came back?

Blank.

Today—same thing. I touched the second one. Folded it. Tucked it away.

And when I showed them—nothing.

Both times. After I touched it.

It hits me in the chest, sudden and electric:

What if that's the trigger?

What if it's not time?

Not air or light or even being seen.

What if it's touch?

What if these drawings aren't just appearing—but reacting?

What if they're alive in some way? Sensitive. Enchanted. Bound to some rule I don't understand—until now.

What if the moment I touch them—direct skin to paper contact—it activates something?

Like a curse that's only meant for me. A secret that punishes me for trying to show the truth.

It sounds insane.

I know it sounds insane.

But… it also makes sense.

In a fucked-up logic sort of way. The kind that books warn you about. The kind that leaves messages in red and whispers in your dreams. The kind that marks your neck while you sleep and steals your cat just to see what you'll do.

I rinse the soap from my arms, still lost in it. The idea has lodged in my brain like a thorn and it won't come out.

Could it really be touch?

Could I have destroyed both drawings just by touching them?

Or worse—was I meant to?

Was someone watching when I did?

I finish the shower in a haze, wrap myself in a towel, dry off slowly.

The air in the room feels colder now.

I dress without looking in the mirror. Black hoodie. Old shorts. No makeup. No effort.

I sit on the edge of my bed and look around.

My walls are still my walls.

My desk still a mess of papers and notes and highlighters that don't work.

My pillow still sunken on the right where Boo Boo used to curl up.

But tonight, everything is different.

Because now?

I have a theory.

And that means I have another test to run.

No more waiting.

No more being scared.

I take a breath, deep and sharp and bitter like medicine.

I'm ready.

Come back, then.

Leave your fucking drawing again.

Let me see you.

I won't touch it this time.

Let's see what happens.

I don't lock the door.

I don't lock the fucking windows either.

I just lay there. On my back. Eyes on the ceiling like it might split open and answer me.

If it wants to come, it can come.

If it wants to drink my blood, fine—take the fucking pint.

If it wants to kill me?

Well.

Let's see it try.

The sheets feel colder tonight. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I've burned out every last spark of warmth inside me chasing shadows and staring at drawings that vanish like smoke.

The fan hums quietly above, dust-speckled and slow. Outside, the street is quiet, too quiet for a Thursday. Even the crickets feel like they've taken the night off. Like they know something's coming and want no part of it.

I pull the blanket up to my ribs. My fingers twitch on the fabric, restless, tense.

I don't expect the phone to buzz.

Not this late.

Not him.

SHADIN.

The name blinks once across the screen and for some reason it punches a hole right through my headspace. Not violently. Just—suddenly.

Because I haven't thought of him today.

Not once.

He's been missing from college for two days straight. No texts. No random meme dumps. No sarcastic commentary in my DMs.

And I didn't even notice.

Until now.

I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen like I'm not sure what to say. Then I hit answer.

"Where the hell have you been?" I ask, voice raw from disuse.

There's a pause on the line. That little breath hesitation, like he didn't expect me to start with that.

"Something's up," he says.

That's it. No drama. No explanation. Just two flat words that slam into the silence like a heavy door being closed.

I sit up slightly, pulse tapping under my skin.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he says slowly, like he's choosing the words instead of just throwing them, "...I've been figuring stuff out."

That doesn't help.

That only makes it worse.

But I don't press. Not now.

Not with everything crawling in my own skin.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, and this time his voice softens. Dips a little. "You don't sound like... you."

I hesitate. The lie slides in like muscle memory.

"Just a headache."

A beat of silence.

"You sure?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Yeah."

"Alright," he says finally. "Goodnight, headache girl."

I almost laugh.

"Sleep tight," he adds.

Then the call ends.

Just like that.

And I sit there, phone still in hand, blanket falling to my waist, wondering if Shadin's voice always sounded this heavy at night. Or if I've just never really listened before.

I put the phone down on the side table.

Try to let it go.

But I can't.

Not yet.

Because something ugly bubbles up in my chest—rage, maybe. Or pride. Or just the dying spark of a girl tired of being called crazy by the people she trusts the most.

I unlock the screen again.

Open the group chat.

Shaiza. Ruby. Ifrah.

They're probably asleep. Doesn't matter.

I type it all at once. Fingers stabbing the screen.

> Today's the fucking day.

I'm getting proof tonight.

Mark my words—tomorrow, I'm gonna walk in and slap it on the desk and watch your dumbass faces try to crawl back into your skulls.

You're all dead for not believing me. Dead. Fucking. Meat.

Send.

Read or not, I don't care.

I toss the phone aside, nearly kno

cking over my water bottle.

Then I shove my earphones in. Not for comfort—just to drown out the world.

I hit play on some random ambient mix. Rain and wind and a bit of thunder in the distance. The kind of noise that feels like it could be from this room, this hour, this nightmare.

I close my eyes.

I don't bother with prayers.

I've already invited it in.

No locks.

No resistance.

No mercy.

I dare it now.

I dare it to come.

Let's see what happens.

---

BANG

BANG

BANG.

"Arshila!"

My mom's voice cuts straight through my skull before I even open my eyes.

The door rattles with each pound. I groan, roll over, and immediately regret everything.

My head feels like it's full of sand and electricity. My arms are heavy, my mouth tastes like something died in it, and my eyes sting when I try to open them fully.

I rub at them, slow and lazy, and try to piece together where the hell I am.

And then it hits me.

The bite mark.

My eyes snap open.

I sit up so fast my spine clicks. I yank the neckline of my t-shirt to the side and bolt toward the mirror, feet half-tripping over the blanket. My heartbeat claws up my throat, mouth dry as dust.

I twist, tilt, pull at my collarbone to get a better view—

No new one.

It's still there. Still raw and red. But no new bite mark.

No fresh sting.

No hot, pulsing pain.

Just yesterday's mark, dark and bruised, mocking me like it knows I expected something worse.

I stare at it.

And disappointment settles in my chest like a rock.

No new mark.

Which means… no drawing, right?

No evidence.

No proof.

Fuck.

I flop back on the bed and exhale through my teeth, hand covering my face.

Was I wrong? Did I fall asleep too hard? Did it not come? Was it waiting for something else? Or maybe—

My phone buzzes somewhere to the left.

I reach out, fingers scrabbling along the sheets, and that's when I see it.

Just under the nightstand.

Peeking out.

A thin, folded paper. Slightly crumpled at the edge. White. Familiar.

No.

My heart stutters.

I lurch forward and drop to my knees beside the bed, yanking the paper out from the shadows like it might vanish if I take too long.

My hands shake.

It's here.

The third one.

It's fucking here.

I don't open it yet.

I can't.

I just hold it in my hands, knuckles white, nails digging into the edge of the sheet so hard I almost tear it. My breath comes fast—too fast. Like I'm sprinting, except I haven't moved.

My pulse is in my mouth.

In my ears.

In my eyes.

I don't blink.

Okay. Okay. Breathe.

I drop it carefully on the bed.

Don't touch it with your hands, dumbass. Not this time.

Last time, I touched it. The ink disappeared.

Not again.

I stand. Move like a robot.

Go to the dresser. Pull open the top drawer and rummage past hair ties, candy wrappers, tampons, and receipts I never threw out.

There. In the corner.

My eyebrow plucker.

It'll have to do.

I clutch it like a damn surgical tool and shuffle back to the bed, mouth tight, eyes focused like I'm doing a fucking autopsy.

Carefully, I wedge the metal tip under the paper. Gently. Soft enough to not damage it. My whole arm shakes.

It's heavier than it should be.

Not physically.

But in the air around it.

Like this paper carries a weight that doesn't belong in this world.

I slide it onto my desk.

Then grab my phone with my other hand. Turn on the camera.

Snap.

Snap again.

Another angle. One more with the time stamp.

My finger trembles against the screen, but I don't let go. Not yet. I zoom in on the edges of the drawing—those impossibly fine lines, the dark, exact shadows under my jaw. I look asleep again in this one. But my mouth is open slightly. One hand curled under my chin. It looks... tender.

Too tender.

Intimate.

Like whoever drew this wasn't just watching.

They were memorizing.

I step back. Chest hollow. Breath ragged.

I need to protect it now.

I can't lose this.

I rush down the stairs, skipping the last step, feet slamming into the tile like I'm being chased by ghosts. My mom's in the kitchen, scraping something in a pan, hair tied up, house smelling like onions and ginger.

"Ma," I say, panting. "Do we have—uh—a plastic cover? Like for documents? Or—or an envelope?"

She frowns at me like I asked for a flamethrower. "What for?"

"Just—uh! "

She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"Please," I say, already halfway through the cabinets.

She finally points. "Drawer. Second one."

I yank it open and find it—a clear plastic file with a zipper top. My heart leaps.

"Thanks!" I shout, already running.

"Wait, wait! You didn't even eat anything!"

"I'll eat later!" I slam the stairs two at a time. 

Back in my room, I don't even close the door. I sit on the floor like a lunatic. I use the eyebrow plucker again—slow, careful, surgical—and slide the paper into the plastic cover like I'm preserving a goddamn holy relic.

The zip clicks closed.

My breath leaves me in one long, trembling exhale.

Then I smile.

A sharp, crooked, deadly smile.

My hands are still shaking, but it's different now. Not fear.

Not this time.

This time?

It's something else.

Control.

Victory.

"You're dead meat," I whisper to no one.

To the thing.

To the fucker who thinks they're smarter than me.

"You're so fucking dead."

---

Okay but listen…

SHE FINALLY GOT THE FUCKING PROOF.

Your girl did not fold. She strategized. She fought back. She said, "You wanna haunt me? Cool. But I'm keeping receipts, bitch."

Also, who the hell is drawing her in her sleep?

Why does it feel personal now?

Why does it feel like a game she didn't sign up for?

And what the fuck is the connection to Boo Boo??

Next chapter?

Let's just say… things are about to get worse.

The proof she just sealed? Might not be the only thing watching her back.

→ If you're reading this,

✦ Drop a comment – I read all of them and it keeps me breathing.

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Till next time—

Lock your windows.

Check under the bed.

And don't touch what's not yours