THE HUNTER .

And then—

He walks away.

Back into the dark.

Just like that.

No rush. No sound.

And I'm frozen.

Still fucking frozen.

My whole body locks up like I've been paralyzed. Not by a weapon. Not by magic. Just... fear. Raw, suffocating, soul-ripping fear.

I can't scream. I can't even fucking blink. My fingers won't twitch. My knees won't bend. My lips are stuck in a half-open position, like I was going to shout—but forgot how.

My eyes are locked to the spot where he disappeared.

That black void between porch and trees.

He's gone.

But the cold he left behind is still crawling up my spine.

I try to breathe.

Try to suck in something. Anything.

But when it finally breaks past my lips, it comes out twisted—like a sob and a scream fucked and gave birth to this broken, shaking noise I don't even recognize as my own.

And that's what finally cracks the paralysis.

I stumble back from the window, hands shaking so violently I almost drop my phone. The flashlight flickers across my walls as I spin toward the door.

I do what every sane person in a horror movie should do.

I run.

I don't look back. I don't wait for another sound. I don't do that stupid pause-and-breathe bullshit. I run.

But the second I reach the stairs, my foot slips on the edge of the rug and my body crashes forward.

Knees scrape.

Elbow bangs the wall.

I tumble halfway down, spine jolting, hair sticking to the sweat on my skin, but I catch myself before I roll fully. I gasp like someone punched me, but I don't stop.

I pick myself up and run the rest of the way down like the fucking devil's chewing on my heels.

And then I reach their room.

I slam both fists on the door like it's a lifeline, like if they don't answer in two seconds I'll shatter into dust.

"Mom—" My voice finally breaks through. "Dad—open—please—"

The door flies open.

My mom's in a robe. My dad's shirtless, blinking hard.

"What the hell happened?" my dad demands.

"Arshila?" my mom says, eyes wide. "What's wrong—are you hurt—?"

I try to answer.

Try to form the sentence. I'm sweating like I ran a marathon through hell. My chest is rising too fast. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

And then it comes out like a cracked whisper—

"There's someone," I choke. "I—I saw—someone."

My mom grabs my shoulders. "Breathe. Baby, slow down."

"I saw him," I gasp. "Outside my window. He was right there, I swear—he was there—"

"Who?" my dad asks, stepping past me. "Where did he go?"

"I don't—I don't know. He walked. Just walked away. He was watching me. He looked back, and he—he—"

I stop.

Can't say it.

Can't say he wore a mask because the second I say it out loud, I'll lose them.

I already know I'm halfway to sounding insane.

My dad's already at the main door, unlocking it. He steps outside.

"I'm checking," he says over his shoulder. "Wait here."

My mom hugs me. "It's okay, baby, you probably just—"

"I didn't imagine it," I hiss. "I didn't. He was there. Full black. He looked at me."

"Okay. Okay," she says, but her voice is doing that soft, calm thing people do when they don't believe you and they're just trying not to make it worse.

And that makes it worse.

My dad checks the porch. The front yard.

He even pulls up the goddamn CCTV on his phone.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just empty porch.

A swaying tree.

A porch light.

"No one," my dad says. "Nothing on the cameras. You must've been dreaming."

"I wasn't dreaming!" I snap, eyes flooding. "Why the fuck would I make this up?"

My mom's face twists. "Hey, hey, calm down."

"No—don't you do that," I growl. "Don't make me feel crazy when I saw it. He looked at me. He stood right there. I know what I saw."

"Maybe it was a shadow," my dad says gently. "Maybe your brain filled in blanks."

"Maybe your brain's full of shit," I mutter under my breath.

"What was that?" he asks.

"Nothing."

My mom strokes my arm. "Baby, I know you're scared. But there's no one. We're here. You're safe. Go to bed. It'll pass."

"Pass?" I scoff, my voice cracking like glass. "Pass?"

I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want them to believe me. But there's no proof. Not this time. No bite. No drawing. Just fear.

Just that.

Empty and brutal and loud in my fucking skull.

I wipe my face and storm back to my room.

---

It feels smaller now.

The walls feel closer. The shadows too heavy. The silence not safe anymore.

I lock the door, but it's pointless. If he came in before, he'll come in again.

I pace.

Back and forth.

Across the cold wooden floor, my feet dragging, my arms folded tightly across my chest. My stomach feels hollow. Like I'm going to throw up nothing.

I glance at the window every few seconds, waiting for another glimpse. A face. A figure. A flicker of movement.

But it's just dark.

And I am so, so fucking alone.

Sleep?

What the hell is that?

My bed looks like a trap.

I sit on the floor instead, back against the wall, blanket wrapped around my shoulders, eyes locked on the door like it might open on its own.

Every sound makes me flinch.

A pipe creak. A tree scratch. My own heartbeat.

It takes everything in me not to cry again. Not to just break open and scream until the whole goddamn city hears me.

Because he's real.

And no one believes me.

And he's coming back.

Morning hits like a slap.

Not a gentle sunrise. Not the kind of morning people write poems about.

It's cruel.

My body aches from where I curled up on the floor, my spine bent like origami against the wall. My eyes burn. My mouth tastes like old air and bitterness. And worst of all—I didn't sleep. Not even for a second.

I stared at the door all night.

I waited for the knob to twitch again, for that voice to come back and whisper some nightmare right against my skin. But nothing. Not a sound.

Just silence.

And shadows.

And the sick, hollow realization that no one believes me.

Not even my own fucking parents.

So I do what any broken, cornered animal does.

I call backup.

I grab my phone with shaking fingers, my heart pounding like it hasn't stopped since last night, and I text the group:

> Me: meet me at the usual café

Me: now. urgent.

Me: pls just come. I need to talk.

Me: it's bad.

I don't wait for replies.

I throw on the same hoodie from yesterday, twist my hair into a barely functioning bun, splash water on my face just to feel alive again—and walk out of the house like I'm heading to war.

Because it feels like that.

This isn't just about Boo Boo anymore. It's not just the drawings. The bite marks. The blackout nights.

It's the face.

The masked, faceless fucking thing that stared right at me like he owned the dark—and me with it.

And if no one takes me seriously now, I'm going to lose my goddamn mind.

---

The café is already buzzing when I get there.

Too many people. Too much sun.

It makes me dizzy.

I slide into the corner booth we always sit at—back wall, farthest from the counter, right beside the plant that's definitely fake. My legs won't stop bouncing under the table. My nails dig into the side of my palm.

I keep checking my phone like time's moving too slow.

Until finally—Shaiza shows up first. Then Ruby. Then Ifrah, half-jogging, her glasses slipping off her nose.

They see my face—and they go silent.

No "hey." No jokes. No teasing.

They just slide into the booth like they already know this isn't a normal meet-up.

Shaiza narrows her eyes. "What happened?"

I swallow hard.

Then I look up at them and say the words out loud for the first time.

"I saw him."

All three freeze.

"What?" Ruby whispers.

"I saw him. Last night. In my room. He walked away, and I followed. I saw him from the window—tall, all black, mask on his face. Like—like ghostface vibes, but real."

"Oh my god," Ifrah says, clutching the edge of the table.

"I ran to my parents. Told them everything. My dad checked the security cam. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. It's like he didn't exist. And my mom just looked at me like I needed therapy."

Shaiza swears under her breath. "Fuck. That's—shit, that's bad."

Ruby leans forward, serious. "Are you okay?"

"No," I snap. "No, I'm not okay. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept in three nights. I'm scared. My body literally shut down last night, like I couldn't move or scream. And everyone thinks I'm making it up. I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."

They all go quiet again.

Then Ruby, voice low, asks the question hanging over all of us: "What are we going to do?"

Shaiza answers without hesitation. "We go to the cops. Now."

Ifrah shakes her head. "With what? The bite mark's old. The drawings are gone. That dumbass Ivana touched the last one—it's probably invisible by now. What do we even show them?"

I blink.

Wait.

Wait.

I shoot upright, hands fumbling into my hoodie pocket, yanking out my phone so fast it nearly flies across the table. I scroll like my thumbs are on fire.

"Arshila?" Ruby says. "What are you—"

"I took a picture," I mutter. "I fucking took a picture of the drawing. 

"What?" all three say at once.

I turn the phone to face them, screen trembling in my hand as I finally pull it up.

And there it is.

Clear as day.

The portrait.

Me. Sleeping. Drawn in strokes so soft and precise it looks like a lover memorized me with every brush of his fingers. It's beautiful. It's terrifying.

It's proof.

They all lean in at once, eyes wide, mouths open.

"Oh fuck," Shaiza breathes.

"Holy shit," Ruby whispers.

"I'm gonna be sick," Ifrah says, already paling.

They all look at me like they've never seen me before.

Not like I'm crazy.

Not like I'm overreacting.

Like I'm right.

And that changes everything.

The air inside the police station is colder than I expect. Like they crank the AC to freeze guilt right off a suspect's skin.

It smells like bleach and tired paper. Desperation sits thick in the chairs.

I don't belong here.

But fuck, I do.

We walk in—me, Shaiza, Ifrah, and Ruby—looking like a girl gang from a horror movie trying to file complaints about a phantom that bites and draws with romantic precision. I'm clutching my phone so tightly my fingers have gone numb.

The officer at the desk looks up—middle-aged, buzz cut, skin tanned and tired, pen tucked behind his ear like it's part of his head. His nameplate reads "Inspector Dhillon." Sharp jaw. Sharp eyes. The kind that doesn't blink often.

He gestures to the bench. "Have a seat."

We sit.

My heart is a goddamn drumline in my ribs. My hands? Sweaty. My throat? Raw from being silenced too many times already.

He squints at us. "So. What's the issue?"

I lean forward, voice steel even though my bones feel like jelly.

"I have a stalker."

He raises one eyebrow. "Alright. How long's this been happening?"

"Two weeks," I say, my voice steady, practiced, because I've gone over this in my head a thousand times. "I think. He comes to my room. At night. I don't know how. The windows are locked. The doors too. I wake up with bite marks on my neck. He draws me while I sleep."

Silence.

Not disbelief yet. But that skeptical cop look creeps across his face.

"And last night?" I go on. "I saw him. From the fucking window. He was leaving. I chased—well, I tried. But I froze. My body shut down. He wore all black. And a mask. I saw him looking at me before he vanished."

Now he's squinting. Leaning forward like he's trying to pick out lies from the air around me.

"You're saying someone's been entering your house without signs of forced entry," he says slowly. "And biting you? And drawing portraits of you?"

"Yes."

"Did you report this earlier?"

I grit my teeth. "No one believed me before. Not even my parents."

He exhales through his nose. Rubs his chin. "Alright. So, do you have any proof?"

"Yes," I say, and my voice finally cracks. "Yes, I do."

I shove my phone across the table.

He picks it up. And goes still.

Dead still.

The screen shows the drawing—the one I snapped a photo of before that dumbass bitch Ivana could wipe it off the face of the Earth. My sleeping face, eyes shut, lips parted, hair falling across the pillow. Like something pulled straight from a forbidden art exhibit.

"Holy… shit," he mutters under his breath.

"Yeah," I say bitterly. "That's me."

He scrolls in. Zooms. Tilts the phone. "This is pencil work?"

"Ink," I correct. "But weird. It vanishes if someone touches it. I'm not joking. I tested it. I've had three drawings so far. The first one I found under my bed. The second vanished ,This is the third. "

He nods slowly. "You kept the original?"

"No. It's gone. A classmate touched it."

He taps the phone screen again, face unreadable. "You said bite marks. Can you show?"

I push my hoodie off my shoulder and tilt my neck.

The punctures aren't fresh, but they're there. Two precise dots. Like a fucking vampire's signature.

He doesn't say anything for a beat.

Then: "Look. You're obviously distressed. You're not lying—that's clear. And this drawing? It's something. But we don't have a suspect. We don't have the physical evidence. We have a picture, and a story. A very specific one."

I ball my fists. "So what? You're saying you won't file anything?"

"I didn't say that," he replies calmly. "But I'm saying we need more before this becomes an official stalking case. There's no camera footage. No fingerprints. No eyewitness but you. That doesn't mean you're crazy. It just means our hands are tied if we want to press charges."

I slam a hand on the desk. "I don't want excuses. I want this fucker caught. I want him to rot in a cell."

Shaiza grips my arm gently. "Arsh—"

"No," I snap. "I'm done being quiet. I'm done being disbelieved. This guy is in my room. Touching me. Watching me. What's next? A fucking knife to my throat?"

The officer puts his hands up, calm but firm. "I hear you. But you need to calm down. I want to help you. I'm not brushing this off, alright?"

He grabs a notepad and starts scribbling.

"Name?"

"Arshila Eshaal Mirza."

"Age?"

"Twenty."

"Occupation?"

"University student. 

He writes it all down.

Then sighs. "It's not believable to most, sure. I admit it. This sounds like something out of a bad horror script. But I've seen stranger things. Doesn't mean it's not happening. We'll look into it. That's a promise."

I want to scream. I want to sob. I want to punch a hole through the desk.

But I sit there, breathing through clenched teeth, teeth grinding down to bone.

"You better," I say. "Because if you don't—he's going to come back. And I won't be the same girl when he does."

He meets my eyes, and something changes in his expression. A flicker of respect, maybe. Or warning.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Click.

Click.

Click.

I watch the officer type something into the dull, flickering police database. The keys sound louder than they should. Maybe because my brain is still humming with leftover adrenaline. Maybe because this is the first time someone—anyone—has taken me seriously.

And damn, it feels good.

"Okay," Inspector Dhillon mutters, squinting at the screen. "Case registered. We've got your statement down, attached your visual proof, and filed it as a possible stalking incident with signs of unlawful trespassing. You'll get a call if anything moves forward."

He turns the monitor slightly toward me, like it'll calm my nerves. It doesn't.

But it does something.

A flicker of power jolts through my spine. Like, finally.

"Thanks," I say, quieter this time.

He gives me a short nod and says something procedural, but I'm not listening anymore.

Because the moment we walk out of that station and into the afternoon heat, my brain flips like a switch.

I have a fucking case file now.

It's not a dream. It's not a delusion. It's not some sick cosmic joke.

It's real.

He's real.

And oh my fucking god—I'm going to ruin him.

"Bitch," Ruby says beside me, watching me walk like I own the pavement. "You okay now?"

"I'm calm," I mutter, adjusting the strap of my backpack. "Which is dangerous."

Ifrah glances at me, nervous. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," I say slowly, eyes narrowed against the sunlight, "about what I'm gonna say when I catch him. Like… the exact words. Y'know?"

Shaiza snorts. "Oh god. You're already scripting your revenge monologue?"

"Of course I fucking am," I deadpan. "I'm gonna slap him so hard his ancestors feel it. Then I'll pour hot wax on his drawing hand. Then maybe—just maybe—I'll smile."

They all laugh, half-nervous, half-impressed.

Because they see it too now.

The danger. The thrill. The rage that's wrapped itself around my bones like armor.

This isn't fear anymore. It's war paint.

I look at the sky like maybe he's up there somewhere watching.

Maybe he knows.

Maybe tonight he'll come back.

And if he does?

This time, I'm ready.

This time, I won't freeze.

This time... he's so fucking screwed.

_____________________________________

✨ Author's Note

Hey you, yes—you who made it to the end of this chapter.

If you felt something… even a flicker—fear, thrill, rage, anything—

Then don't keep it to yourself.

Drop a comment. Vote. Give a Power Stone.

Your voice isn't just support—it's power.

Every time you comment or vote, you help this story grow. You help it reach new readers. You help me keep pushing to make each chapter better, darker, sharper.

So if you're here, if you're with me—

Let me hear you. Let me feel that you're here.

I'm giving you everything I've got.

Just give me a sign you're out there, too.

bamby💀🖤