THE HUNTER .

There's a storm under my skin.

A smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth, shaky hands trying not to tremble, and adrenaline dragging claws down my spine like a warning.

I should be afraid.

And maybe I still am.

But fear doesn't matter right now.

Because I have the goddamn proof.

I shove the plastic cover deep into the front pocket of my backpack like it's gold—or a bomb—and I sling it over my shoulder and bolt out the front door without even pretending to say goodbye to my mom.

The sky's still pale. The air wet. The city hasn't fully woken up yet.

And I don't care.

I don't care that I'm too early. That the gates haven't even opened fully. That the security guy is yawning like he hates his life.

Let him.

I sit on the edge of the yard wall, arms crossed, foot bouncing, wind scraping cold across my bare forearms. But inside? I'm buzzing.

They're gonna eat their fucking words today.

Every last one of them.

My phone's in my hand, but I'm not even looking at it. I'm watching the gate like a hawk, waiting. Waiting for one of them to show their face.

And then I see her.

Shaiza.

I stand instantly. Wave a little too aggressively.

She squints like she doesn't recognize me for a second—then walks over, expression wary.

"You're here early," she says.

"Mmhm," I hum.

And then—finally—Ifrah and Ruby walk in, side by side, laughing about something that dies instantly when they spot us.

They walk up slow, like they already know something's off.

Perfect.

I cross my arms. Wait a beat. Then—

"Bitches."

They all blink.

"Didn't you say I'd lost it?" I tilt my head. "Didn't you call me delulu, said I need a boyfriend, maybe a dick to fix my so-called hallucinations?"

"Arsh—" Ruby starts.

"No. Shut up. You humiliated me. You made me feel like a fucking maniac when I told you something was wrong. You laughed."

Shaiza sighs. "Cut the crap. Come to the point."

"Oh, I will." I slide my bag forward. "You want the point? I brought the whole fucking knife."

I unzip the bag slowly, deliberately, like I'm pulling a gun, and reach in. My fingers close around the plastic sleeve. Cold. Smooth. Heavy with truth.

I pull it out.

And I hold it up.

Clear. Unmistakable. That third drawing inside—black ink, delicate lines, me fucking sleeping, mouth parted, hair fanned across the pillow, like someone hovered over my bed to study every fucking inch of me while I didn't even know it.

The air shifts.

Ifrah gasps. Sharp and too loud.

Ruby's jaw drops.

Shaiza goes still.

Dead. Still.

They look at me like I just summoned a fucking demon into the quad.

"Holy shit," Ruby whispers.

I tilt my head. "Still think I'm crazy?"

"Where—" Ifrah's voice cracks. "Where the fuck did you get this?"

I almost laugh.

"This morning. Under my nightstand."

"Wait, what the fuck," Ruby breathes. "This is real? You weren't kidding?"

"Nope."

Shaiza leans closer, squinting at the lines. "It's hand-drawn?"

"Obviously."

"Who the fuck drew this?"

"Take a wild fucking guess."

Ruby's hand twitches forward, like she's going to take it out of the cover.

I slap my hand up like a warning sign. "Don't. Stop right there."

She freezes.

"You touch it—it's gone."

"What?" Shaiza snaps. "What do you mean gone?"

"I mean," I say, voice low, "this ink? It fucking disappears when you touch it. Like poof, vanished. Nothing left but blank paper."

Ifrah shakes her head like she's trying to make sense of gravity failing.

"Wait, how do you know that?" she asks.

Shaiza cuts in. "Yeah. How the fuck did you even figure that out?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe because somehow, despite everything, my brain decided to fucking work for once. I touched the last two. Gone. This time, I used tweezers. Slid it in here. Locked it up. And look—it's still here."

They stare at me like I'm not me anymore.

Like I'm some other version of myself they don't know how to name.

Good.

"I'm gonna find whoever's doing this," I say, venom in my voice now. "I don't give a shit if it's a ghost, or a psycho, or some twisted vampire creep with an art kink. I'm gonna catch the motherfucker."

"No," Ruby says, still blinking like her brain hasn't caught up. "No, seriously, Arsh. What the fuck is happening?"

"I don't know yet." ."But I'm gonna find out. Because Boo Boo's still missing. And this? This is connected. I can feel it. I know it."

Ifrah rubs her arms. "Dude, this is like… this is not normal."

"Yeah, welcome to the plot twist," I mutter.

Shaiza stares at me. Quiet. Then, finally: "Okay. Okay, shit. We believe you now. This is fucked."

"Fucked isn't the word," I say, shouldering my bag again. "It's only just starting."

And I swear, for the first time since this nightmare began—since Boo Boo disappeared, since the first drawing, since the bite marks and the cold fear whispering in my bones—I feel a little taller.

A little stronger.

A little like maybe I'm not the prey in this story.

Maybe I'm the trap.

We stand in a loose circle near the edge of the stone benches, surrounded by swaying tree shadows and that thick college morning haze that clings to your throat like a warning.

No one's speaking for a second.

Just staring.

At me. At each other. At the plastic sleeve I carefully slid out and placed on the weather-worn bench like a goddamn cursed relic. The drawing inside doesn't move, doesn't smudge, just sits there quietly—taunting. Watching.

Shaiza exhales, low and sharp.

"You're in danger," she says.

Simple. Final.

That's when Ruby snaps, "What if that fucker did something to you while you were sleeping?"

Her voice cracks halfway through, and it's not just worry—it's panic. Real panic. I've never seen Ruby panic before. Her eyes are wide. Her body's rigid.

"Don't say that," I mutter.

"No, seriously!" Ifrah shouts, throwing her arms up. "Someone is fucking biting you in your sleep, and you didn't even know? How the fuck do you not know?"

"Because," I say, shrugging like it's no big deal but my jaw clenched like steel, "even if an earthquake happened when I'm out, I wouldn't know. I sleep like a corpse, alright? Dead to the world."

"Jesus," Shaiza whispers, hand over her mouth. "What about the bite? Is it… hurting now?"

I shake my head. "No. Not today. Just itchy yesterday. Now it's like... numb."

"Okay. So," Ruby says, pacing a bit now, "the bites. The missing cat. The creepy-ass drawings. The weird fucking portrait from under your bed. Boo Boo vanishing. The midnight calls. That non-expulsion drama. The submitted project. It's all connected."

"Obviously," I hiss. "Of course it's connected. It's not just random bullshit. It's intentional. That motherfucker—whoever they are—they've got a hot-ass brain. A really twisted, artistically talented, possibly sociopathic hot brain."

Ruby nearly chokes. "Did you just call a potential stalker hot?"

I blink at her. "I said his brain. Not his dick."

Shaiza's not laughing though. Her voice cuts through the moment like a knife. "When did you first notice something was off? Like… really off?"

And I feel it again.

That moment.

Like my stomach drops through my spine.

"That night," I say slowly, voice rough now. "When Shadin called me. Midnight. Phone buzzed, I picked up—half asleep—and he said… he said, 'I see you.'"

Their faces all shift.

"I'm under your bed," I go on. "You look hot when you're scared. That's what he said. Creepy as hell. I hung up. Next day—I confront him. I ask what the fuck that was. And he just... looks at me all confused and swears he never called."

"Holy shit," Ruby whispers, hands on her head. "He's been absent for days. That creepy motherfucker. What if it's him?"

Shaiza frowns. "He knows your house. Your room. Your routine. Doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I admit. . 

"What if it's him, Arsh?" Ruby presses. "What if he's playing all of us? He's weird, he's unpredictable, he's fucking attractive, and attractive people can get away with murder. Literally."

"Can he draw like that?" Shaiza cuts in. She points to the plastic cover on the bench like it's poisonous. "Because this isn't some amateur shit. This is… god-tier art. Like, shadowing, proportion, fucking light source. It looks like a photo."

I look at it again. My own half-sleeping face, frozen in ink. Fragile and ghostlike. Like someone saw me in a moment no one else should ever see and captured it perfectly. It's horrifying. It's beautiful.

It makes my skin crawl.

"Him?" I shake my head. "I don't know if he can draw. Never seen him hold a pencil. He's the type who skips art to nap in the parking lot."

"So it's not him?" Ifrah says.

"I didn't say that," I mutter. "I said I don't know."

"I'm telling you," Ifrah insists, pointing a trembling finger at me, "don't trust anyone. Especially not that fucker. He's handsome, right? Dangerous handsome? Maybe rich too?"

"...Somehow. Little bit," I say under my breath.

They all stare at me.

"What?" I shrug. "He drives a bike with custom leather seats and smells like imported sin, okay? That doesn't mean he's the bloodsucking Picasso from my nightmares."

"If I ever see his name trending with 'missing girls' and 'sketchbook full of death,' I'm saying I told you so," Ifrah huffs.

Shaiza's staring at the drawing again. "We need to find out who's behind this."

"We?" I raise a brow. "You bitches finally joining the horror club?"

Ruby smirks faintly. "You've got the evidence. That earns you members."

I stare at the bench where the drawing sits inside its cover. The wind flutters the edges. But it doesn't move.

It just waits.

Like it knows.

And for once, I think—I might be ready for what comes next.

"Stop reading those fucking dark romance books, Arsh," Shaiza snaps, eyes wide, voice sharp. "You need therapy. Real, clinical, intense therapy with a professional who has credentials and a diploma and probably a holy water spray bottle."

I give her a dead stare. "You're not wrong. But first—we're going to the fucking cops."

"With what?" Ifrah says, half-laughing, half-horrified. "A plastic file with a vampire stalker's fan art?"

"No," I spit. "With this fucking drawing, with the bite marks, with the fucking pattern, with Boo Boo disappearing, with everything. They have to believe us."

"They won't," Ruby says flatly. "You know that, right? You walk into a police station ranting about midnight bites, vanishing cats, and disappearing ink—they'll diagnose you, not help you. They'll give you a therapist, not a fucking task force."

"They have to believe me," I growl, voice low now, my hands clenched so tight they tremble. "Or I swear I'll burn this whole fucking city down, brick by brick, until I find whoever did this. I don't give a fuck who's watching. I'll make the news before I make it to therapy."

We all go quiet for a second.

The kind of quiet where the air buzzes. Where you can feel heat rising under your skin. Where you can feel it turning. Something in the universe, the mood, the fucking vibe.

And then—

A voice behind us.

"Wowww. Who drew this?"

We spin around so fast it's like we're choreographed.

And there she fucking is.

Ivana.

Ivana fucking Malik.

Our classmate. The walking ear infection. The permanent headache in tight jeans and an attention problem. The girl who once said serial killers just needed "a little love" and who told our English professor that Kafka was probably just sexually repressed.

And worse—

She's holding the drawing.

Barehanded.

No cover.

No plastic.

No protection.

Just fingers. All over it.

Our blood runs cold. The air freezes.

I lunge.

"Are you fucking crazy?!" I snatch it out of her hand like it burned me. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Ivana blinks, totally unfazed. "What?? I was just complimenting the art. Damn. You people act like I licked it."

"You fucking touched it!" I scream, voice cracking. ", you fucking airheaded, nosy-ass, clout-chasing—"

"Oh my god," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "You guys never like anyone touching your stuff. You're always rude. That's why people talk behind your back, you know? You think you're all cool and edgy with your little exclusive bitch gang—"

"Go before I slap the contour off your face," Ruby snaps, stepping forward with her fists clenched.

Ivana flips her off with a lazy smirk. "Y'all need serious dick in your life. Desperately."

And with that, she walks off like she didn't just fuck up everything.

I'm frozen.

Drawing in my hand.

Fingers trembling.

I look down at it.

Still there.

Still... there.

Lines soft and perfect. My sleepy face, immortalized in black ink.

But I know what's coming.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

I can already feel it—like the warmth bleeding from my fingers into the page is slowly eating the lines, like the touch is unraveling the image atom by fucking atom.

Seven.

Six.

I close my eyes.

Five.

Four.

Three.

And then—it's gone.

I open my eyes to blank paper.

Just plain, creased white.

Not a single mark.

Not even a trace.

The drawing is erased like it was never born.

Like it never fucking existed.

Like I made it all up.

"Fuck," I whisper. "FUCK."

My voice is gone.

My rage isn't.

I shove the paper back into the plastic like it matters now. Like anything matters. My proof—gone. Again. Because some irrelevant idiot couldn't keep her fucking hands to herself.

I turn away from my friends and stare at the fountain behind us. Water trickles, calm and fake and useless, and I feel something break inside me.

I run my fingers through my hair—rough, frustrated, wild—and then slam my palms on the stone rim.

Then harder.

Then again.

Until my head leans forward and bangs softly—once, twice—against the edge of the fountain.

Not hard enough to hurt.

Just hard enough to feel something.

My breath's coming in sharp, shallow gasps. My throat tastes like metal. My eyes burn.

Shaiza puts a hand on my back, but I shake it off.

"She touched it," I mutter.

"I know," Ruby says gently. "We didn't see her—"

"She fucking touched it. And now it's gone. Again."

Ifrah crouches beside me. "We'll get another one."

I turn to her, eyes bloodshot. "And what if we don't?"

"You will," Shaiza says firmly. "Because you said something comes every night. And tonight—you don't sleep alone."

My breath catches.

"What?"

Ruby leans in. "We're staying. All of us. Your place. Tonight."

"We'll take shifts," Ifrah says. "No one touches anything."

"No one sleeps alone," Shaiza adds. "And if he shows up again…"

"We'll kill him," Ruby says without flinching.

"No," I whisper.

They all look at me.

"I'll kill him," I correct.

And this time—no one argues.

____________________

We pile into my room like it's a mission headquarters and not just a tiny, slightly messy, slightly suspicious bedroom with questionable posters and a worn-out mattress.

My mom calls up the stairs, "Arshila, did you girls eat dinner?"

"Yes!" I shout, already mid-lie. "We have to finish this group assignment Deadline's crazy!"

She doesn't question it. Of course not. I've pulled all-nighters for assignments before. She doesn't know the "assignment" tonight is a vampire-proof stakeout with my three unqualified, chaotic-as-fuck best friends.

Shaiza throws her bag down and plops beside me, already kicking off her shoes. Ruby claims the floor like it's a damn throne. Ifrah's halfway to panicking because she forgot her moisturizer and sleep scrunchie and is muttering curses into her tote bag.

Me?

I'm quiet.

Too quiet, probably.

Because this could be the night.

Because it's always the nights I sleep alone that he comes.

Whoever the fuck "he" is.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I flinch.

Shaiza catches it. "Who's that?"

"No one," I lie too fast. "Just…Instagram. Someone liked my story."

She raises an eyebrow. Doesn't call me out. Just nods slowly. "Okay."

We settle. Kinda. There's snacks. A mess of pillows and limbs. A lot of nervous laughter that we try to pass off as casual. We joke about calling in a priest or setting salt circles. Ruby says if a demon shows up, she's throwing Ifrah at it and running.

I'm smiling.

But my stomach is a pit.

And eventually, the chaos fades. One by one, they drift off. Ruby snores softly from the floor. Shaiza's sprawled sideways on my bed, stealing all the blanket like a thief. Ifrah's curled against the wall, clutching her phone like a rosary.

Me?

I'm awake.

Eyes wide. Jaw clenched. Heart punching my ribs like a trapped animal.

And waiting.

Waiting for the cold air.

The shadow.

The whisper.

The bite.

---

Morning.

Shaiza groans first, stretching like a lazy cat.

Ruby's mascara is smudged. Ifrah's hair is a disaster. We're all vaguely gross and disoriented.

I shoot upright, heart pounding.

I check my neck.

Nothing.

No sting. No ache. No mark.

I scramble toward my desk, my eyes darting everywhere.

The mirror. The floor. The nightstand.

Nothing.

No drawing. No ghost paper. Not even a fucking pen smear.

I stand there for too long, frozen.

And then I mutter, "Maybe tonight was too crowded. Maybe he only comes when I'm alone."

They all exchange a look, but no one says anything.

---

They're gone. It's just me again.

Normal routine.

Classes. Notes. Numb stares. Fake smiles.

I keep waiting for something to feel off.

For a chill at the back of my neck.

For a whisper in my ear.

For anything.

Night falls. I don't lock the door. I don't shut the windows. I don't cover myself with a blanket. I lie down and leave my throat fucking exposed like bait.

I don't sleep. Not really.

And in the morning?

Nothing.

Again.

Another fucking day

Same thing.

Fake normal. Empty hours. Pacing like a caged animal.

I get home. Throw open every window.

I scream into the silence: "COME THE FUCK ON!"

Nothing responds.

No ink. No mark. No visit. No breath on my neck.

Just wind.

Just me.

Just silence.

'________

Friday.

I drag myself through class like a corpse in fresh foundation.

Ruby teases me about the new guy in Bio. Shaiza's ranting about the lit professor again. Ifrah's talking about the new show she binged.

But I barely hear them.

I'm watching shadows again. Scanning faces. Counting clocks.

Waiting for something.

Nothing comes.

I sit on my bed.

Alone.

The house is quiet. Lights out. Mom asleep.

I pull out my phone and open our group chat.

Typing:

> maybe the fucker backed off

Delete.

Re-type.

> maybe he's gone.

Delete again.

Then:

"Maybe he backed off.

Maybe he won't come again.

But still.

Tonight I'm not sleeping.

Pray for me.

If anything happens—

it's him.

Okay?"

I hit send.

The second the message flies out, I feel cold again. Not air. Not wind.

Doubt.

Disappointment.

Like a storm I expected never arrived. Like waiting on a knife and getting silence instead.

I put my phone on the side table.

I lie down.

I stare at the ceiling, arms above my head.

Window open.

Curtains slightly moving.

Neck bare.

Exposed.

I whisper, "If you're gonna come, come. I'm done playing."

But the room stays still.

And once again—I fall asleep waiting for the monster.

I lie in the dark, wrapped in a silence too heavy to be normal.

Blanket up to my chin.

Fan creaking overhead.

Curtains swaying like they're breathing.

The kind of quiet that makes your brain chew itself.

And I start thinking the way no one should think before bed.

Not about dreams. Not about plans.

But about death.

How will I die?

Will I get hit by a car while scrolling Instagram? Will I choke on toothpaste in the bathroom because I laugh too hard?

Or will it be something... different?

Will someone kill me?

Will it be tonight?

My heart skips, stumbles.

I roll onto my side, facing the wall.

And I think—

What if it's not a man at all?

What if it's not even human?

What if he's something else? Something with claws or fangs or a twisted fucking brain wrapped in a face hot enough to be illegal. What if he's not a guy, but something ancient with heavenly blessed arms that know how to draw soft shadows and curled lips like he's memorized every curve of me in sleep?

Fuck.

Fuck.

I drag the blanket over my head. Like that'll save me.

I'm half-suffocating under here, but it's better than being exposed.

My mind screams to stay awake.

But I blink.

Once.

Twice.

And the world slips sideways.

Just barely.

Long enough for the creak to hit me like a punch.

My body locks.

I don't move.

Not even a twitch.

The floorboards groan again—slow, heavy, real.

My breath stalls in my lungs.

I feel my pulse slam against my ribs, each beat like it wants out. My throat closes up. My fingers curl tight under the blanket.

And then—

The doorknob turns.

Clicks.

Swings open.

I can't fucking breathe.

I'm lying on my side, turned away from the door. I can't see shit. My eyes are wide open, but the blanket hides everything and I'm too fucking scared to move it.

I go still.

So still.

Like if I don't move, maybe I won't die.

I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Not like someone lost.

Like someone who knows where they're going.

Each step lands in my spine. Right between my shoulders. Right in the center of every organ.

My limbs start to tremble.

My body's gone cold. Like bone-deep cold. The kind of cold that comes when your brain knows something's off, something's coming, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it.

I want to scream.

But my mouth won't open.

I want to fucking run.

But my body's paralyzed.

My eyes water. Not from sadness—fear. Gut-splitting, soul-fucking fear.

And then—

I feel it.

Not touch.

Not yet.

Just breath.

Hot.

Right on my neck.

Like someone's standing behind me, hovering, their mouth inches away.

I go stiller than dead.

Teeth clench. Heart pounding so hard it physically hurts. My ribs feel like they're about to snap inwards. My fists are tight, my whole body is one tight scream stuffed into a skin suit.

He doesn't touch me.

He doesn't have to.

Just exists this close to me. Breath on my neck. Breath on my fucking skin.

And then—

A voice.

Low.

Deep.

Too close to be real.

And it says—

"You look hot when you pretend to sleep."

The words pour into my ear like silk dragged across broken glass.

I stop breathing.

Literally.

For a second I think my heart just stops.

That voice—

That fucking voice—

It's deep and slow and not human. Or maybe it is, but the kind of human that shouldn't exist. Velvet laced with venom. Heat wrapped in ice. Every syllable like it's sliding a hand under my skin.

You look hot when you pretend to sleep.

My blood goes cold.

I want to scream.

I want to vanish.

I want to fucking die.

But I can't do anything.

I stay frozen, eyes shut now, because I can't bear it. Not the reality. Not the voice. Not the breath that smells like night and danger and something a little too sweet.

Then I hear movement.

A shift.

He steps back.

Soft.

Deliberate.

Gone?

I don't know.

I don't move.

Not for minutes.

Not until the air changes again.

Not until the breath is gone.

Not until the silence returns.

I count seconds like I'm praying.

"I wasn't crazy. He's real. And he's inside my room."

I feel nothing.

Not at first.

Just the cold.

The kind that sinks into your skin and settles beneath your ribs, like your bones are trying to warn you.

I lay there.

Eyes wide open.

Blanket still clutched to my throat.

The voice still echoing in my ear like it was stitched into the air.

You look hot when you pretend to sleep.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I turn my head slowly.

The room is dark.

Still.

Silent.

But I can feel it—that static in the air. Like it's watching me even if I can't see it.

My throat is dry. My mouth tastes like rust and panic. My arms won't move for a second, then too fast all at once, I throw the blanket off and sit up, gasping.

I reach under the pillow with shaking hands and grab my phone.

The screen blinds me for half a second.

I fumble with the flashlight, heart pounding like I'm about to have a cardiac arrest, and I turn the light on, swinging it wildly across the room.

Desk.

Bookshelf.

Curtains.

Wall.

Ceiling.

Nothing.

I aim the light at the floor.

To the left.

To the right.

To the shadowed corner near my closet door.

Still nothing.

But my brain keeps whispering:

What if he jumps out now?

What if he's hiding just outside your reach, waiting for you to feel safe?

I push off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. I crouch down and slowly lean toward the edge of the bed, lowering the light toward the floor, my heart slamming like a damn war drum.

I look underneath.

Empty.

No blood.

No claws.

No breathing monster.

Just dust and a missing sock.

I slowly stand. My legs are jelly, barely holding me up. I step toward the hallway, open the door an inch—

Blackness.

No sound.

No flickering lights. No horror movie screech.

Just the long quiet hallway and the closed bathroom door at the end.

I shut the door again, hand trembling on the handle.

My breath is ragged. My heart feels bruised from how hard it's working.

I turn to the window.

Draw the curtains back slowly. The fabric makes a soft hiss, like it's warning me.

Then I unlock the latch.

Slide the window open.

And lean forward.

My breath catches before I even know why.

There.

Right there.

Someone is walking away from the side porch. The sit-out.

Tall.

Dressed head to fucking toe in black.

His shoulders wide. Posture calm. Like he just finished something. Like he isn't running. Like he knows I'm looking.

I can't see his hands. Or his feet. The dark swallows him in pieces.

But I see enough.

I see the silhouette.

The calm gait.

The fucking confidence.

I freeze. Every muscle in my body screams. I can't even open my mouth. My brain is yelling scream, but all I can manage is a dry gasp that tastes like horror.

And then—

He stops walking.

Still facing away.

He stands there. Just stands. Back to me. Like he's thinking.

And then, as if he's been waiting for this exact moment, he turns.

Not fully.

Just a little.

Enough to look at me over his shoulder.

My scream escapes like it's been punched out of me. Not loud. Not sharp.

Just raw. Choked. Like my lungs can't keep up with my fear.

Because he's wearing a mask.

White.

Smooth.

Emotionless.

A fucking ghostface mask.

A black mouth frozen in a scream that looks like it's mocking mine.

Dark holes where the eyes should be—but I know, I know he's looking straight at me.

Right into me.

Through me.

Like he sees everything I've done, everything I've thought, everything I'm terrified of becoming.

And for the smallest second—just a blink—he tilts his head.

A mimic of curiosity.

Or mockery.

I don't fucking know.

I can't move. I can't fucking breathe.

And then—

---

AUTHOR NOTE 

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