The Hidden Account

Chapter Six

Amir hadn’t slept.

The glow from his laptop was the only light in his bedroom, throwing sharp shadows across the walls as lines of code scrolled endlessly down the screen. His phone lay face-down beside the keyboard, buzzing every few minutes with messages he refused to answer.

Jade had called six times.

He knew he should pick up. He knew she was spiraling just as much as he was. But Amir needed to be sure—absolutely sure—before he said anything out loud.

Because if he was right, everything changed.

He leaned closer to the screen, heart pounding as he replayed the clip for the fourth time. It was from Lila’s final livestream—the one everyone had already watched, dissected, slowed down frame by frame. The one that had gone viral for all the wrong reasons.

Except Amir wasn’t watching Lila.

He was watching the reflection behind her.

At exactly 12:47 a.m., when Lila leaned forward to read a comment, the ring light caught something in the dark window behind her. A blur. A movement. Almost nothing.

Almost.

Amir froze the frame and zoomed in, his breath shallow. The reflection sharpened just enough to show a shape that didn’t belong—tall, unmoving, too solid to be a trick of light.

Someone had been there.

His fingers trembled as he minimized the video and pulled up Lila’s public social media account. It was still frozen in time, a digital shrine filled with comments begging her to come back, strangers pretending they had known her, conspiracy theories stacking up by the hour.

That wasn’t what he was looking for.

Amir opened a new tab and typed in a username that had been nagging at him since dawn.

@midnight.liv

The account loaded slowly, the wheel spinning like it was deciding whether to exist.

Then it appeared.

No profile picture. No bio. Zero followers. Zero following.

Three posts.

Amir swallowed.

The first was a black square, uploaded two weeks before Lila vanished. The caption read:

You don’t really disappear if people are still watching.

The second post was a blurry photo of what looked like streetlights reflected on water. The caption:

Some places remember you.

The third had been uploaded at 12:58 a.m.—eleven minutes after Lila’s livestream ended.

It was a screenshot of a comment from her live chat.

One Amir recognized immediately.

JadeHeart23: Are you okay? Blink twice if you need help.

The caption beneath it was a single word.

Almost.

Amir’s chest tightened so hard it hurt.

This wasn’t a fan account. It wasn’t random. This was deliberate. Calculated.

This account had been watching Lila before she disappeared—and had been watching them afterward.

His phone buzzed again. This time he answered.

“Amir?” Jade’s voice cracked through the speaker. “Where have you been? I thought something happened to you.”

“I think I found her,” he said.

Silence.

Then: “What?”

“Not physically. Not yet,” he added quickly. “But I found something. A hidden account. It’s tied to the livestream. To you. To me.”

He heard Jade inhale sharply. “Send it. Now.”

He did.

They stayed on the line as Jade scrolled, her breathing getting faster with every second.

“This… this is sick,” she whispered. “Why would someone do this?”

“That’s the thing,” Amir said. “I don’t think it’s just someone. I think Lila knew about this account.”

“What?”

“The first post was two weeks ago. Before she went missing. And the wording—it sounds like her. Like something she’d say.”

Jade’s voice dropped. “Are you saying she planned this?”

“No,” Amir said. “I’m saying she was scared. And someone was already in her life, already watching her. This account feels like a conversation—one we weren’t meant to see.”

As if summoned by his words, Amir’s screen refreshed.

A notification appeared.

@midnight.liv posted a new story.

His stomach dropped.

Jade gasped on the other end. “I see it too.”

The story was ten seconds long.

A shaky video of darkness, broken by the sound of breathing. Then a whisper—soft, almost swallowed by static.

“Stop looking,” a voice said.

The video cut off.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Finally, Jade whispered, “That wasn’t Lila.”

“No,” Amir agreed. “But they want us to think it could be.”

Another notification appeared.

@midnight.liv sent you a message.

Amir stared at it, every instinct screaming at him not to open it.

Jade didn’t hesitate. “Open it.”

He did.

The message was short.

You’re closer than you think. But not everyone wants her found.

Jade’s voice shook. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning,” Amir said. “And maybe an invitation.”

“To what?”

“To play along.”

Outside, a car passed slowly down the street, its headlights sweeping across Amir’s window. For a split second, the reflection reminded him of the figure behind Lila in the livestream—still, watching, waiting.

“Jade,” he said quietly, “we can’t tell anyone about this. Not the police. Not our parents.”

“Why?”

“Because whoever is behind this knows too much already,” he said. “And if they’re right—if not everyone wants Lila found—then we don’t know who we can trust.”

Another message came in.

Midnight again tonight.

Jade let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “They’re enjoying this.”

Amir closed his laptop, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt in the dark. “Then we stop reacting like an audience.”

“And do what?”

“We watch back,” he said. “We wait. And we make them slip.”

Outside, the night pressed in, heavy and listening.

And somewhere, someone was counting down to midnight.