EYES ON ME
1057 Words
Joy hadn't slept.
Every creak made her jump. Every car outside made her heart race. Every shadow felt wrong.
*You're being paranoid.*
But the dark sedan had been there all night.
Midnight—there.
2 AM—still there.
4 AM—engine off, but someone inside. She could see the phone screen's glow.
*They're watching me.*
Her hands shook making coffee. The familiar throb started behind her left eye—migraine building like a storm. She'd had them since Tony died. Stress, the neurologist said. Trauma manifesting physically.
*Great timing.*
She fumbled for her pill bottle. Empty. Of course it was empty. Refills cost money she didn't have.
The pain sharpened, a ice pick drilling into her skull.
She needed to think. To plan.
**Options:**
**1. Police.**
*And tell them what? "I illegally treated a gunshot victim"? They'd arrest ME.*
**2. Run.**
*With what money? I have $127 total.*
**3. Act normal.**
*As if that would work.*
Her phone buzzed. The screen's glare sent another spike through her temple.
**MURPHY'S DINER: Can you cover breakfast shift? Starts in 1 hour. $$$**
Joy stared at the screen, squinting against the pain.
Going outside meant exposure.
Staying meant losing money she desperately needed.
She typed: **Yes. I'll be there.**
*Hiding won't save me. And I can't afford to lose this job.*
She grabbed her bag. Then went to her medical kit.
Pulled out a scalpel.
Stared at it.
*I'm a doctor. I save lives.*
The weight felt wrong in her hand. Foreign. Dangerous.
*But Tony didn't have a weapon either. And he's dead.*
She slipped it into her jacket pocket.
*Just in case.*
---
**Streets of Brooklyn - 7:03 AM**
Joy took a different route.
Not her usual subway. Not her usual streets.
Three extra blocks on busy roads. Maximum visibility. Maximum witnesses.
The migraine pulsed with every heartbeat. Morning light felt like knives.
And she saw them everywhere.
Man in the coffee shop—laptop open, but eyes tracking her.
Woman at the bus stop—phone raised at the perfect angle.
Car that turned when she turned.
*They're not even hiding anymore.*
Her heart hammered, but she kept walking. The scalpel pressed against her ribs through the thin jacket fabric.
*Don't run. Running makes you prey.*
She'd learned that after Tony died—self-defense class, ex-military instructor. Learning to fight because she couldn't save him. Learning to defend because doctors weren't supposed to need weapons but Tony's blood on her hands said different.
*"Walk with purpose. Stay visible. Make yourself difficult."*
So Joy walked with purpose even though her legs wanted to sprint and her head wanted to explode.
A man stepped into her path.
Joy's hand flew to her pocket—
"Spare change?"
Just a homeless man. Red-rimmed eyes. Stained jacket.
Her breath came too fast. "Sorry. I—I don't have anything."
He shuffled past.
Joy pressed her palm against her temple, willing the migraine back. Willing her heart to slow.
*You're losing it. Get control.*
By the time she reached Murphy's, her hands were shaking, her shirt was damp with sweat, and the pain behind her eye was blinding.
The smell of grease and coffee hit her—normally triggering her migraines worse, today somehow comforting.
*Safe here. Public. Witnesses.*
"You okay?" Maria grabbed her arm the second she walked in.
"Fine. Just tired."
Maria's eyes narrowed. Dark skin, graying braids, the kind of face that had seen everything Brooklyn could throw at someone. Three kids at home. Two jobs. She recognized trouble because she'd lived through plenty of her own.
"You look terrified. You in trouble?"
*You have no idea.*
"Just stressed about rent," Joy said. Not a lie. Just not the whole truth. "And migraine. Bad one."
"You got your meds?"
"Ran out."
Maria disappeared into the back, returned with two pills and water. "Ibuprofen. Not prescription-strength, but better than nothing."
Joy's throat tightened. Kindness hurt more than the headache.
"Thank you."
Maria squeezed her wrist. "If you need to talk..."
"I know. Thanks."
Joy grabbed the coffee pot and started her shift, forcing herself to smile at customers.
But every few minutes, her eyes flicked to the door. Every time the bell chimed, her hand drifted toward her pocket.
The migraine kept building. The lights too bright. Voices too loud. The bell over the door like a gunshot each time someone entered.
*How long can I keep this up?*
---
**Fred's Vintage Brownstone - 7:47 AM**
Fred watched the live feed of Joy serving coffee.
Professional smile. Efficient movements.
But he could see what customers couldn't.
Tension in her shoulders. Eyes darting to exits. Tremor in her hands. The way she kept pressing her left temple—migraine, probably. And her right hand kept returning to her jacket pocket.
"She's armed," Fred said quietly.
Cole zoomed in. "Can't see what. Something small."
"Scalpel from her medical kit," Benson said. "Elias caught it on her apartment camera before she left."
Fred's smile widened. "She came prepared."
"She noticed Davies and Chen," Cole said. "Changed her route, took different subway, stayed on busy streets."
"Good."
"She's terrified."
"She's *thinking*." Fred leaned closer, Macallan warming in his hand. "Watch. She's not panicking—she's calculating. Strategic decisions, not emotional ones."
On screen, Joy served a customer while scanning both exits. Positioned herself with her back to the wall whenever possible.
"Elias flagged her search history," Cole said.
The screen changed:
**11:47 PM** - *Am I being followed?*
**12:23 AM** - *Signs someone is watching you*
**1:15 AM** - *What to do if stalked*
**2:34 AM** - *Can police protect from gangs?*
**3:18 AM** - *How to disappear*
**3:41 AM** - *How to know if you're paranoid or in real danger*
**4:02 AM** - *Bus ticket cost NYC*
**4:23 AM** - *Witness protection eligibility requirements*
Fred's smile widened. "She's researching. Preparing. Building contingency plans."
"That makes her dangerous," Benson warned.
"That makes her *perfect*." Fred straightened, the scent of Tom Ford clinging to his crisp suit collar. "Increase surveillance. I want her aware, on edge—but not so terrified she does something unpredictable."
"Why?" Benson demanded.
Fred's eyes gleamed.
"Because I want to see how she responds to pressure. Does she break? Freeze?"
Pause.
"Or does she *sharpen*?"
He picked up his phone. One text to Cole's secure line.
**Make contact. Today.**
---
- Writer
