Chapter 5: The Nightlight

DRISANA

He was already smirking when our eyes met. Chills ran down my spine.

“Mr Stalker?” I didn’t mean to say it, but that was the first thing that came out of my mouth.

The smirk vanished as soon as I turned to face him.

“W—What? I wasn’t stalking—” he began.

“How do you know about the takeout?” I cut in.

He looked at me. Something fast moved behind his eyes.

“You—You looked upset yesterday,” he said, immediately looking away. “Not that I was paying attention or anything. People just… forget stuff when they’re stressed.”

“You are avoiding the question.” I stared at him. “How do you know about the takeout?”

“I saw you at the restaurant…yesterday,” he said quickly, pressing his lips together as he avoided my gaze. “I didn’t want you to think I was following you or anything.”

Who does he think he’s fooling. His tone changed when he made those comments. Even when I turned to look at him, his expression was different. He looked like another person.

“Right,” I said.

As if I was going to believe that. I pulled out my phone and opened Mr Stalker’s contact. Typed fast without looking up.

*What are you doing at the moment?*

I expected Rian’s phone to buzz. But no sound came from him. Of course, he could have another phone or even his laptop to play Mr Stalker. But I refused to be convinced this early.

I watched his face from my peripheral vision while I waited. He had shifted slightly. His hands were in his hoodie pocket. His weight had moved to his back foot.

He’s getting uncomfortable.

My phone buzzed. A text came in from Mr Stalker.

*Depends on your answer? With a laughing emoji.*

Since when does he use emojis. He never texts with emojis. I asked him once about it and he said he’s not a fan of it.

Something clicked. I checked the time. 11.43 am on a Tuesday. Mr Stalker had not responded to a Tuesday morning text in many months. Not once. The pattern was so consistent I had stopped texting him before noon on Thursdays entirely.

Until today.

And the response itself looks off. He never answered a question with a question unless something had caught him off guard. His texts were always direct. Always specific. This reads like someone else.

I looked up from my phone. Rian was looking at the window. His jaw was tight. He has to be him. Rian and Mr Stalker are the same person. And I am going to prove it.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at me. “Sure.”

I walked away slowly. Walking fast would tell him something. I kept my shoulders loose and my pace even and didn’t look back.

But I felt his eyes on the back of my neck. Greek god my ass. More like Greek creep. I know exactly what you are, I thought. I just need to prove it.

I didn’t go home immediately.

I sat in my car in the parking lot and thought about what I had and what I needed. Something was off about him. That’s not a mistake and I’m definitely not buying the “I saw you at the restaurant” bullshit.

What I had was a gut feeling, a response that came too fast on the wrong day, and a deflection that explained nothing. What I needed was something I could hold in my hand.

I opened my glove compartment and pulled out my old phone. I stopped using it a year ago when I got the new one. I had kept it charged out of habit. I plugged it into the car charger and waited for it to boot.

Kwame was the best hacker the Varma family had and he was discreet in the way that only people who had seen too much ever learned to be. I had used him twice before. He didn’t ask questions.

I found his number and typed a message.

*I need a trace. Full background. I’ll send you what I have.*

His response came in three minutes later.

*Send it.*

I pulled up the school administration email on my old phone. One of the perks of being a nepo baby is having access to information you really shouldn’t be seeing.

When I got admitted to this school. The Dean had given me the private administration email. You know, just in case I need anything. I’ve always thought I wouldn’t use it but here we are.

I sent an email, requesting student admission records for the year I got admitted to school. Let’s start with that.

I got a response shortly after.

I spotted his name quickly. It’s not that hard to find. Just “Rian” sitting alone on the list. No last name or middle name. There’s no way a prominent organization will admit someone like this.

The record came with his name, photo, and his possibly fake student ID, which he probably ripped off from another student. His face was partially shadowed by his hood but it was enough.

The admission date fell on a Sunday in late October. Seriously, Rian. Is this the best you can do. Who gets their admission letter on a weekend, especially Sunday. If you want to lie, at least make it believable. No intake period in the university’s history had ever started on a Sunday in late October.

I forwarded everything to Kwame. Then I typed the rest.

*The student ID number is in the file. Fake admission date. I need you to trace the system breach that added him to the records. I also need you to look at the security network for my building. Specific dates below. Footage was wiped in those days. I need to know who accessed the network and when.*

I listed the dates. Six of them. I noticed the gaps when I checked the building manager’s logs two days ago.

*My building address is in your contacts already.*

Kwame’s response was immediate.

*It will take a while. But I’ll see what I can do with these. Busy helping your old man track some deals.*

I set the old phone on the passenger seat and sat for a moment.

The parking lot was nearly empty now. The last few students trickled out in pairs, laughing about something, unbothered, living completely normal lives. I watched them and thought about how strange it was to be sitting in a car running a background check on a boy I met four days ago while my father’s hacker cleared his schedule to help me.

Normal was never really my thing anyway. I started the engine and drove home.

*

I warmed the takeout properly this time. I ate standing at the counter with my old phone face up beside the plate. Whenever I hear a buzz, I’d run to it hoping to see if it’s a message from Kwame or… Mr Stalker.

I went to bed at a reasonable hour and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling until I dozed off.

I was up before my alarm.

I lay in bed for exactly three minutes staring at the ceiling before I got up and prepared for school.

I pulled out a cream fitted top and dark jeans. Simple. The kind of outfit that said absolutely nothing was wrong. Completely unbothered.

I did my makeup slowly. I practiced the smile in the mirror twice. Not too wide, warm enough to be convincing. I picked up my bag, dropped my old phone into the side pocket, and left.

*

Charlotte looked up first. “Drisana. Hi.”

“Hi.” I dropped into the seat beside her. “How are you?”

“Good. Did you do the pre-reading?”

“Most of it.”

“Same.” She smiled and turned back to her notes.

The door opened. I looked up before I finished deciding to. He came in with his hood up and his eyes down, moving through the room the way he always did, like he was trying to subtract himself from the space rather than add to it. He scanned the rows once. His eyes landed on me briefly.

I smiled at him. Not a small smile. A full one. Warm and easy and completely unbothered.

His face turned pink. He looked away fast and took his seat two rows back, sliding down slightly like he could make himself smaller if he tried hard enough.

Charlotte leaned toward me. “Do you know him?“

“What do you mean? He’s in our project group,” I said. “Rian.”

“Oh. Right.” She glanced back briefly. “I completely forgot. He’s always so—”

“Quiet,” I said.

“I was going to say intense.” She paused. “Same thing I guess.”

I laughed. Intense indeed. I looked back down at my notes and wrote nothing for the rest of the lecture.

I spent the afternoon pretending to study.

I opened my laptop twice. Closed it twice. Checked my old phone at two pm and again at four. Nothing from Kwame yet. I made tea I didn’t drink, reorganized a shelf that didn’t need reorganizing, and sat at my desk watching the light outside my window change from afternoon gold to evening gray to full dark.

By eleven p.m., I had stopped pretending. I was just waiting. Then my old phone buzzed.

A message from Kwame. Finally.

*Wow. Who is this person? His work was very neat. Took me all my skills to track him down. Here’s the result. *

He attached a file to his message. That was faster than I expected. I sat at my desk with the nightlight on and my mother’s ring turning slowly on my finger.

Then I opened the file.

No legitimate admission records. The breach had been traced to an IP address that didn’t belong to the university network. Professional-level intrusion. Clean entry and exit except for one residual log that Kwame had found buried three layers deep.

The same IP address appeared in my building’s network logs. Four of the six dates I had given him. Same device. Same entry signature.

Then the last attachment.

One frame of footage. Timestamp from seven months ago. Before the wiping started. Before whoever this was realized he needed to be more careful.

The lobby of my building. The camera above the main entrance is angled down.

A figure in a black hoodie walking through the front door. Head slightly down. But not enough. I zoomed in. His face was clear enough.

I sat back in my chair and looked at the ceiling for a long moment. My ring had stopped turning. My hands were completely still.

I had known. I had known since the corridor yesterday and maybe longer than that if I was being honest with myself. But knowing and holding the proof in your hand were two entirely different things.

I picked up my current phone and opened Mr Stalker’s thread.

I sent a message: Let’s talk about it tomorrow. See you in class, Rian.

I watched the three dots appear. I was still staring at my screen, waiting for his response when my old phone buzzed again.

My old phone buzzed. Another text came in from Kwame.

Kwame: I got interested in this strange person. Found something unusual. You might want to check your apartment. Especially your bedroom.

My stomach tightened.

Me: What do you mean?

Kwame: I picked up camera signals from your place. At least four of them. Same IP address. I could only track one before he cut me off.

I stared at the screen. My hands were cold.

Me: Send me the footage.

A video loaded. My bedroom from this morning. The angle was high and wide. It covered the whole room.

I watched myself get dressed. Watched myself check my phone. Watched myself leave.

Goosebumps rose across my skin.

Me: Thanks K. Do not tell anyone about this.

Kwame: My lips are sealed. Be safe out there, kiddo.

I set the phone down and walked slowly around my room. Looked at the ceiling. The walls. The bookshelf. The dresser.

I walked around the room, trying to trace the angle he could have placed the camera. It was positioned on the left, facing my bed. The angle was coming from the—

The nightlight.