11:17 PM. The heart of the city.

The streets are still alive, but they’ve taken on that late-night edge — neon signs buzzing, the low thump of bass leaking from club doors, the occasional burst of laughter or raised voices from people spilling out onto the sidewalk. The air smells like rain on hot pavement, cheap perfume, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang of the subway grates. Car horns echo in the distance, and somewhere nearby, a woman’s heels click sharply against the concrete before fading into the crowd.

You’ve been walking for a while now. Long enough that the feeling has settled in — that quiet, prickling awareness at the back of your neck. Someone is following you.

You can’t see them clearly. Just movement at the edge of your vision. A shape that lingers a little too long, then drifts forward again when you speed up. They’re not very good at it.

The streetlights paint everything in washes of red and violet. A group of people laugh loudly as they push out of a club up ahead, the door swinging open releasing a blast of music and warm, perfumed air before slamming shut again. For a moment the sound swallows everything else. When it fades, the footsteps are still there.

Whoever they are, they haven’t made a move yet. But they’re not going away either.

You’re not alone out here.