Night falls, and the hospital feels different. The white walls seem colder, the fluorescent lights harsher. I can't sleep, not really. Every noise—the distant rumble of traffic, a nurse's hurried footsteps, the faint beep of machines—sets my nerves on edge.
Then it happens. A shadow at the end of the hallway. I see it move quickly, almost slipping past the security cameras. My pulse jumps.
I freeze. My mind races. This is not imagination. Not paranoia. Someone is here.
The shadow disappears before I can get a closer look, but the tension stays. My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Do not go into the hall alone.
I swallow, hands trembling. Noted. Are you some kind of stalker or hero?
Both. Just stay alive.
The words are enough to keep me inside my room. I pace, checking the locks, the windows. The city hums outside, unaware, indifferent. I feel both trapped and protected.
Hours pass. The shadow returns, closer this time, lingering at the nurse's station. I see it in the reflection of the polished floor, and my chest tightens. The intruder doesn't approach my room, doesn't make a sound. Then, just as suddenly, he's gone.
My phone buzzes again.
He won't get close. Not while I'm here.
A mix of fear and relief settles in me. My rescuer, still unknown, still untouchable, is protecting me from the unseen danger. I laugh quietly, shaking my head. "Mysterious man, you are either insane or perfect," I whisper. "Either way, I owe you one."
And I know, somewhere in the dark corridors of the hospital, he is listening. Watching. Waiting.