Chapter 2 — Something’s Off

Adrian didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

He lay in bed with his eyes open, fixed on the ceiling, watching the shadows move like smoke across the plaster. His mind kept circling the same questions. Who sent the box? How did they know what he was doing? And worse—how long had they been watching?

Every creak of the pipes made him flinch. Every flicker of light through the curtains made his heart stutter. He knew this kind of fear—it was like an echo of childhood nights spent hiding in his closet while his father’s voice thundered from room to room.

But this fear was different. Sharper. Personal.

It wasn’t rage that waited outside his door now.

It was something quieter. Calculated. Patient.

By 5:47 a.m., he gave up on sleep entirely. The sky outside was still dark, smeared with indigo and pale silver. He made tea with hands that trembled just enough to spill a few drops on the counter. The quiet of the kitchen mocked him.

He glanced at the drawer.

The note was still there.

He should burn it. He should call someone. Report it. But what would he say?

“Someone left me a flower and a compliment, Officer. Arrest them.”

He let out a bitter laugh under his breath. No one would take him seriously. He’d had this problem before—when he tried to report the man who followed him home from the grocery store last year, the officer had smiled and said, “Maybe he just liked you.”

Adrian had stopped trying after that.

Still, this wasn’t normal. He knew that.

He sat on the couch and curled his legs beneath him, sipping tea that had long since gone cold. His sketchpad lay open on the coffee table, the pages smudged from last night’s drawings. He hadn’t even realized he’d been sketching faceless silhouettes again until he saw the charcoal dust on his fingers.

A knock at the door made him flinch so hard he nearly spilled his mug.

He froze.

Another knock.

This one lighter. More rhythmic. Almost… friendly.

He stood slowly and approached the door, every muscle in his body tense. Peering through the peephole, he saw a familiar shape—Jace, holding a small brown bag in one hand and a drink tray in the other.

Adrian hesitated before opening the door a crack.

“Hey,” Jace said, his usual smile in place. “Didn’t see you yesterday, thought I’d bring breakfast. Figured you probably haven’t eaten.”

Adrian relaxed—barely—and opened the door wider. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Jace stepped in without waiting for an invitation. “But you look like hell.”

Adrian said nothing. Jace was blunt, but not unkind.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping lukewarm coffee and poking at slightly cold bagels. Adrian avoided eye contact, eyes flicking toward the kitchen drawer every few seconds.

Jace noticed. “Something happen?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Adrian sighed, dragging his fingers through his messy hair. “I found something yesterday. On my doorstep.”

Jace raised an eyebrow.

“A box. Black. Inside was a lily. And a note.”

Jace waited. “What did it say?”

Adrian didn’t want to repeat it. Saying the words out loud would make them real. But the silence pressed on him, so he mumbled, “That I looked beautiful last night. That I should close my curtains.”

Jace’s expression shifted from curious to serious in a heartbeat. “That’s not okay.”

“I know.”

“Did you report it?”

Adrian laughed dryly. “To who? What would they even do?”

“I don’t know, Adrian, maybe take it seriously? That’s stalking. That’s not just some weird admirer.” Jace leaned forward. “Have you noticed anything else lately?”

Adrian hesitated. “Sometimes… I hear noises. My phone battery drains too fast. My lights flicker. I thought it was just anxiety.”

Jace frowned. “You can’t stay here alone. Come stay with me for a few days.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because a part of him wanted to know what would happen next. That was the truth he couldn’t say out loud.

Adrian shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

Jace didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

As soon as Jace left, the apartment felt even emptier than before.

Adrian stood in front of his window for a long time. The alley below was empty. Silent. But he swore he felt eyes on him—eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t move, just watched.

That night, he closed the curtains. Double-locked the door. Left the hallway light on.

Still, when he woke up at 2:14 a.m., heart racing and throat dry, he found another box at his bedside.

Smaller than the last.

And this time, there was no flower.

Only a flash drive.

And a sticky note on top of it:

“Now do you believe me when I say I see everything.