I'm sitting on the hospital bed, phone in hand, staring at the ceiling. My coffee from the café earlier has gone cold, but I haven't touched it. My mind is restless. Every shadow outside the window seems alive, moving, watching.
Then my phone buzzes. Unknown number.
You need to listen. Danger is closer than you think.
I bite my lip and type back before thinking too much. Thanks, Captain Obvious. I have excellent instincts already.
Not joking. Someone is moving against you tonight. Don't leave your room.
I freeze. The hallway outside is quiet, eerily quiet. My mother dozes in the chair across the room. I debate whether to laugh or panic. I type quickly: So, what do I do? Hide under the bed?
Do not underestimate this. Stay alert. Lock everything. I am watching.
I stare at the screen and realize I'm starting to rely on him. On the stranger I have never met. On the one person who might actually know what's happening. My fingers tremble as I type a teasing response: You're scary and mysterious. I like it.
Almost immediately: I'm not here to entertain. I'm here to protect.
I sigh and lean back. The thrill of danger mixes with the strange, undeniable pull I feel toward him. My heart is racing, but I can't look away from the phone. Every message, every warning is a reminder that someone has my back, someone is paying attention in ways I don't understand.
The city hums outside, but inside, every corner of this hospital feels like a battlefield. I know survival isn't enough. I need answers. And slowly, I realize that part of me is desperate to know him. To finally see him.