Emilia’s POV 

It started with the sound of glass breathing.

That is the only way I can explain it, the faint whisper of my bedroom window expanding with the wind, rattling like someone testing its patience.

Seated cross-legged on the living room floor, a paintbrush confined between my fingers like a silent expression. The rug under me retained warmth from the little spot of sunlight that had moved over it before. Now, the sun had disappeared, the apartment exuded a quiet, empty ambiance as if it were anticipating the arrival of night.

Across the room, the black card shone on the table, facing up, demanding attention. I could have moved it three times already, first into the kitchen drawer, then inside the sketchbook I rarely opened, then finally here, in plain sight. Every attempt to bury it had failed.

Dante Vero. Silver embossed letters, sharp as the edges of a blade. No phone number, no address, no email. Just a name and a geometric logo that looked like it could cut through skin.

The brush dipped into cadmium red, but my hand froze midair. The half-finished figure on the canvas stared back at me. Faceless, yet somehow judging—like it knew I’d lied earlier when I told myself his proposal meant nothing.

It was just a business card, I told myself. Customers left them all the time. But this one wasn’t an introduction—it was an invitation I hadn’t asked for.

Outside, the street was quieter than usual. Not empty. Just… listening.

I turned my eyes to the window, but I saw my reflection in the glass instead. My hair was secured with a relaxed bun, tendrils curling over my face as if attempting to conceal me. My eyes appeared so lifeless they could easily belong to another person.

The brush slipped from my fingers, bristles-first onto the canvas. A slash of red bloomed across the pale background like an open wound.

I muttered under my breath, reaching for a cloth.

That’s when the knock came.

Soft. Almost shy. The kind of knock that doesn’t announce but lingers, curling around the edges of your attention.

I stilled.

Another knock—slightly firmer this time, as though testing me.

I rose slowly, my bare feet curling against the rug’s rough texture. My door had three locks; all of them were engaged.

“Who is it?” My voice was quiet, tighter than I wanted.

Silence.

A third knock, lighter again, but deliberate. The rhythm felt practiced, like someone who understood how to make curiosity feel like compulsion.

My hand hovered near my phone. I could call someone. Or ignore it.

The knocking stopped.

I waited, every second stretching thin, before leaning forward to peer through the peephole. The hallway was empty.

Relief didn’t come.

I almost turned away, but then my gaze dropped to the floor.

A folded square of black paper sat against the doorframe.

Keeping the chain lock in place, I opened the door just far enough to reach for it. The paper was thick, textured, and expensive. Inside, one sentence in silver ink:

You’ll say yes eventually.

No signature. None needed.

The edges of the note pressed into my palm as I shut the door harder than I meant to, the frame shuddering in its hinges.

I set the paper down on the table beside the card. They looked like they belonged together.

I poured myself a glass of water and stared at it for ten minutes without drinking.

It took an hour before my hands stopped trembling enough to paint again. When I did, the strokes came fast and sharp. Lines slashed across the canvas until the faceless figure stood with its shoulders tense, braced for another knock.

I lost track of time.

The phone rang at 11:04 p.m. Unknown number.

I didn’t answer.

It rang again.

My fingers shook as I picked up. “Hello?”

A pause. Then his voice—smooth, low, and certain.

“You work better under pressure, Emilia.”

I didn’t ask how he got my number. I didn’t ask why he was calling this late. I just listened to the quiet after his words, heart pounding in my throat.

The line didn’t disconnect. Somewhere on his end, faint but certain, I heard it—the rattle of my bedroom window breathing.

That sound lodged in me like a splinter.

“Are you outside?” My voice cracked before I could steady it.

He didn’t answer. The line clicked, dead.

I stood in the middle of my apartment, the silence suddenly heavier, like it had teeth. I checked the locks again. Once. Twice. Three times.

In the bedroom, I pulled the curtains tight, but I still felt the window’s presence, its faint, rhythmic sigh in the wind.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the black card and the note still on the table in the other room. My phone screen glowed faintly beside me.

No new calls.

No messages.

And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was still listening.

By midnight, I’d stopped trying to paint. Every time I lifted the brush, my mind replayed his voice. You work better under pressure.

He couldn't have  said it like he knew me. Like he knew how my art changed when fear got under my skin.

And deep down, I hated how right he might be.

At 12:32 a.m., a shadow slid across my living room wall.

I wasn’t imagining it.

The streetlamp outside was steady—its light didn’t flicker. Whatever moved had passed directly in front of my window.

I didn’t breathe.

The shadow didn’t come back.

But when I finally forced myself to look, my gaze snagged on the black card on the table.

It wasn’t where I’d left it.

My stomach clenched as though my body had realized something my mind was still resisting.

The card now sat at an angle, its edges perfectly aligned with the grain of the table. I had left it slightly crooked, on purpose.

I scanned the apartment. Nothing else seemed disturbed. The curtains were drawn tight, the door locks untouched.

Still, I crossed the room slowly, each step a whisper against the floorboards.

My fingertips hovered above the card. The air around it felt faintly warmer, as if it had been touched seconds ago.

I flipped it over.

On the blank back, in the same silver ink as the note, four words had been added:

I like your fear.

My breath caught, sharp and shallow.

The phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a call—it was a picture message from an unknown number.

My screen lit up with an image taken from outside my window.

I was in it.

Sitting exactly where I stood now, my hand frozen above the card.

The timestamp read: two minutes ago.