2. The Weight of Shadows

Lena 

I sit at my desk in the quiet, expansive office of King Enterprises, my eyes already heavy from hours of staring at endless spreadsheets. The afternoon light filters through the tall windows, casting long, soft shadows across empty cubicles. Every keystroke reminds me that I’m here, alone with my thoughts, the hum of machines and distant footsteps the only sounds breaking the silence.

As the clock approaches noon, I push my chair back and let out a long, silent sigh. I rest my head on the cool surface of the desk, desperate for a moment’s respite. My eyelids droop, and I can almost drift away—if only for a couple of minutes. Before I can sink any deeper into exhaustion, I hear a gentle tap on my shoulder. 

I open my eyes to see Collette, her kind face marked with quiet concern.

“Lena, would you like something to eat? Perhaps a cup of tea?” she asks softly.

I manage a small, tired smile and shake my head. “I’d rather take a quick nap,” I murmur, my voice barely audible in the vast emptiness of the office. Collette hesitates, then offers a sympathetic nod and steps away, leaving me to the gentle solitude of my break.

I close my eyes again, but the peace is short-lived. 

A nagging sensation prickles at the back of my neck—a feeling that I am not entirely alone. I open my eyes slowly and glance toward the far corner of the room. There, in the dimness, I catch a fleeting glimpse of a shifting shadow. My heart stutters. Was that real, or merely a trick of light and exhaustion?

At that precise moment, I notice movement along the hallway. A figure is walking with deliberate, measured steps toward the restroom. The unease claws at me until I can no longer sit still. With my pulse quickening, I rise and follow at a cautious distance, staying hidden in the corridor’s low light.

I approach the restroom door with trembling fingers and push it open. 

Inside, the fluorescent lights cast an uncomfortably stark glow over the sterile space. I check each stall and scan the room, but it’s empty. The silence is oppressive, every tiny creak of the building magnified in the stillness. Needing to steady myself, I move toward the mirror and peer into it, half-expecting to find reassurance in my own reflection.

Instead, my blood runs cold. Across the mirror, in jagged, unmistakable red lipstick, someone has scrawled my name: “Lena.” The letters seem to vibrate with a malevolent energy. My heart hammers in my chest, and a clammy layer of sweat beads on my forehead. I stare at the message as if it holds the power to unravel my very sense of self. 

Who would do this, and why? The questions churn inside me, turning my stomach to knots.

I spin on my heel and rush out of the restroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. My mind races with a potent mix of fear and anger. Every shadow, every corner in the office now seems fraught with hidden intentions. As I run, my body is propelled by instinct until I suddenly collide with a tall, solid presence in the narrow corridor.

Before I can fall, a strong hand catches me. 

I blink in startled disbelief as I raise my eyes to meet those of a man standing before me. It is Aaron King—my enigmatic and imposing boss. The intensity in his gaze makes my heart leap into my throat, and for a heartbeat, the terror of my situation mingles with the familiar, complicated spark that ignites between us.

“Easy, Hurricane,” a smooth voice murmurs. “Planning to take me out with your head?” His arms are still around me, one hand gripping my waist, the other steadying my shoulder. He’s close. Too close. His tailored suit smells like cedar and expensive arrogance.

“Didn't know hallway assaults were your new thing,” he adds dryly, brow raised. “Should I be flattered?” I’m breathless, flushed—not from the impact, but from the sheer tension between us.

“I—I didn’t mean—” I stammer, pulling away from his grip. His gaze scans my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The rest of the day at the office passes in a haze. I work mechanically, my mind occupied by the surreal events that have invaded what should be a safe, professional space. When the workday finally ends, I step out onto the cool evening street, my thoughts a tangled mess of dread and unanswered questions.

Back at my apartment, I unlock the door with shaking fingers, my nerves still rattled by the day’s unnerving encounters. I hang my coat, try to swallow the feelings of isolation, and head toward the window to seek solace in the familiar cityscape. I pull back the curtains, expecting to see a quiet, ordinary street. Instead, I stop dead.

There, in the silvery glow of a streetlamp, stands a man. He’s wearing black, his face shadowed by a cap or hood. But he’s angled perfectly, head tilted up—staring right at me. My blood runs cold. I can’t see his face clearly, but my heart knows.

It’s him.

I clench my fists.

He is the same figure I glimpsed earlier in the office—a dark silhouette with an imposing presence. His face is obscured by shadows, but the way he stands, as if intentionally waiting, sends a shock of terror through me. My grip on the curtain tightens until my knuckles blanch. 

I know, even if I have no concrete evidence, that this man is no mere passerby.

A cold resolve replaces my initial shock. I clench my fist so hard it aches as I watch him, determined that I will not cower in silence. I tell myself that calling the police would be pointless without proof, but I also cannot allow this intrusion to continue unchecked. 

And then the lights are out, leaving me to gasp in horror. By the time I turn around to look out of the window, he is gone - which sends a sharp and fearful feeling in my heart.