Page 8 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

Not because I like it, but because, for once, I’m not invisible in my own routine.

I shouldn’t want that. I know better.

But I do.

***

The next morning, I open the fridge and find the note still on the counter, untouched and unread, or maybe just unacknowledged.

I pick it up. I don’t throw it away. I fold it once, twice, then slide it into the back pocket of my blazer before heading to the office.

If this is a game, I’m already inside it. And if they’re watching, I want them to see me choose not to run or hide. Let them study me.

But I’ll be watching back.

***

By Thursday, I stop expecting the quiet to mean safety. Silence has taken on a different texture. It’s not the absence of sound anymore; it’s the presence of something waiting to be noticed.

At home, in the office, even in the elevator. Everything hums with too much stillness and anticipation.

I check my apartment as soon as I get in. The lights are off. That’s normal. The air is colder than usual. It hugs the walls and moves like something breathed just a moment before I opened the door.

I step in, keys still clenched between my knuckles. A reminder to myself that I still hold something sharp.

The space is clean. Predictably so. Every surface in place. Every chair where I left it. Except, the scent is off.

There’s a trace of perfume in the air. Faint, expensive, and not mine. It drifts near the hallway, by the bedroom door.

It’s not floral or overpowering but subtle. Like the drydown of something once warm—tonka, leather, maybe even violet—but now barely there. It smells like someone passed through, not like someone sprayed it.

I haven’t had anyone over in months. No friends. No deliveries past the door. No cleaners since I canceled the service after law school. There’s no reason for it to smell like someone else.

I go to the closet. My clothes hang untouched. My coats are aligned. But my navy trench, the one from the photo, is out of place. The belt is looped through the wrong side. A small and intimate difference.

It takes me several minutes to move again.

I shower with the door cracked open. I dry off, facing the mirror. I don’t say a word. I sleep on top of the sheets. Not because I expect someone to break in, but because someone already has.

At the office the next morning, everything feels louder.

The buzz of the vending machine down the hall echoes like it’s been turned up. The click of my heels on tile reverberates in a way that makes me want to walk on my toes. Even the blinds rattle faintly when no one’s moving.

It’s like the building is reflecting my state back at me, that I’m heightened, bristled, and too aware.

I don’t tell anyone what’s happening. To name it would be to lose something. My control, edge, or identity. So I keep it in.

But I watch and test. I leave a pen angled a certain way on my desk before lunch. When I return, it’s been nudged. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to make sure I’d notice.

A slow game. And one I’m apparently meant to play.

By the time the sun sets, the sky looks like it’s holding back blood. Storm clouds stack like stone. The light bleeds orange through the rain in streaks. It’s not beautiful. It’s hostile.

The kind of weather that doesn’t ask for permission before breaking everything.

I lean back in my chair and look at it through the glass. My office feels too still again.

I don’t even react anymore.

Later that night, back at the apartment, the chill greets me before the lights do. The scent is stronger now. The air smells like someone else’s idea of me.

I pull off my coat, flick the light switch, and look around. There’s nothing to see. Nothing out of place. Except for the feeling that I’m being asked to see anyway.

I walk to the closet again. This time, it’s the black pumps lined up differently. Left one slightly ahead. The way I wear them. But I haven’t worn them since last month.

There’s no smudge on the mirror or fingerprint on the dresser. But the world inside this apartment no longer belongs to just me.

And yet, I don’t feel violated. I feel seen. I shouldn’t. That’s the disturbing part.

I should feel scared, angry, and cornered. Instead, I feel watched by someone who knows the choreography of my life better than I do.

Someone who notices not the parts I show, but the parts I hide.

And I realize something quietly terrifying: This is not random. This isn’t a thrill-seeker. Not a bored stranger, hacker, or voyeur. This is personal.

Someone has studied me long enough to know how I think, move, and cover my tracks. They’re not stumbling through my space; they’re editing it.

I light a candle in the living room as a signal.

If you’re going to orchestrate silence, I’m going to place a flame in the center of it. Let it burn through the game.

I sit on the couch. I say nothing. I write nothing. But I think louder than I have in weeks. And I hope faintly that whoever’s watching knows it.

Sometime after midnight, I walk into the bedroom and find the closet light on. Just a slit of it, like someone hadn’t shut the door completely. I stare at it for a long time.

I don’t reach for a weapon or scream. I walk over, place my hand against the doorframe, and speak aloud, for the first time.

“I know you’re here.” My voice doesn’t shake. “I know you’ve been here.” I pause. “Fine. Let’s stop pretending.”

I close the closet door, then walk back into the kitchen. I pull out the same notepad as before and write slowly.

You’re changing things. Not hiding them. That’s how I know this isn’t about fear. This is about me. And I want to know why.

I don’t sign it. I leave the note where I left the last one.

Then I go to bed.

And for the first time in four nights, I sleep soundly.