Four
1308 Words
HANNA POV
I couldn’t breathe.
Not because he was attractive.
Not because he knew my name.
But because I had drawn this man hundreds of times.
Maybe thousands.
Every line of his face lived somewhere in my apartment. In old sketchbooks. Torn pages. The backs of receipts. My nightmares.
And now he was standing in front of me like he had stepped out of my head and into reality.
“You look terrified,” he said softly.
“I’m not,” I lied.
His eyes moved over my face slowly. Too slowly. Like he was memorizing me.
Marcus stepped beside me then, finally noticing something was wrong.
“You know this guy?” he asked carefully.
The man smiled before I could answer.
“Jan Beakers,” he said, extending a hand toward Marcus. “Old friend of Hanna’s.”
Friend.
The word made my stomach twist.
Marcus shook his hand cautiously. “Funny. Hanna never mentioned you.”
“That’s because Hanna forgets things,” Jan replied smoothly.
My chest tightened.
“What the f**k does that mean?” I asked sharply.
Jan finally looked back at me fully.
And God.
Those eyes.
Blue. Cold. Familiar.
“It means we knew each other a long time ago,” he said quietly. “Before you left.”
“I never left anywhere.”
“You did.”
The certainty in his voice unsettled me more than the words themselves.
Marcus glanced between us. “Hanna?”
“I don’t know him,” I said immediately.
But the moment I said it, pain split through my head.
Sharp.
Sudden.
A flash of rain.
A little boy standing under a streetlight.
Blue eyes.
Blood on his hands.
I staggered slightly.
“Hanna,” Marcus said again, reaching for me.
But Jan moved first.
His hand wrapped around my wrist gently. Warm. Steady.
And the second he touched me, another flash hit.
A child’s laughter.
A voice whispering my name.
Then darkness.
I jerked away from him instantly.
“Don’t touch me.”
For the first time, something flickered across Jan’s face.
Hurt.
Gone so quickly I almost imagined it.
“You still react the same way,” he murmured.
My pulse was hammering now.
“What do you want from me?”
His gaze lowered briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
“You.”
The answer came too fast.
Too honest.
Marcus straightened beside me immediately. “Okay. That’s enough.”
But Jan ignored him completely.
“I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, Hanna.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too hot.
Every instinct inside me screamed to walk away.
But I couldn’t move.
Because part of me — some dark, twisted part — wanted to stay.
Wanted to hear him keep talking.
Wanted him closer.
“You’re insane,” I whispered.
A slow smile touched his mouth.
“You used to like that about me.”
I stared at him in horror.
“I never knew you.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “You did.”
Then someone called his name from across the ballroom.
Jan finally stepped back.
The distance should’ve made me feel better.
It didn’t.
“If you remember anything,” he said calmly, “call me.”
He slipped a black card into my hand.
His fingers brushed mine deliberately.
Electric.
Then he walked away.
Just like that.
Like he hadn’t just shattered something inside me.
Marcus grabbed my arm once Jan disappeared into the crowd.
“Hanna.”
I looked at him.
“You okay?”
No.
Not even close.
I looked down at the black card in my hand.
Jan Beakers.
Owner of Beakers Gallery.
And beneath the name was a handwritten sentence.
You still draw me beautifully.
My blood ran cold.
Because I had never shown anyone those sketches.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I tried.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
The way he looked at me.
Like he knew me better than I knew myself.
Like he had been waiting.
I sat on the floor of my apartment at three in the morning surrounded by sketches of his face.
Dozens of them.
Maybe more.
All identical.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Same expression.
It should’ve been impossible.
I grabbed my phone and stared at the black card again.
Jan Beakers.
Gallery owner.
No criminal record.
No connection to the murders.
At least not officially.
But something about him felt wrong.
Dangerously wrong.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
My phone buzzed suddenly.
Unknown Number.
Again.
I almost ignored it.
Almost.
But this time, I opened the message.
You looked beautiful tonight.
Ice slid down my spine.
I stared at the words.
Then another message appeared immediately after.
You always wear black when you’re nervous.
My apartment suddenly felt exposed.
Too open.
I stood up quickly and checked the locks.
Windows.
Hallway.
Nothing.
No one.
Yet my pulse wouldn’t slow down.
How the hell was he doing this?
Unless—
No.
It couldn’t be him.
Could it?
I looked at the sketches again.
Then at the message.
And for the first time in years, fear crawled under my skin.
Real fear.
The next morning, I went straight to the office.
Sarah looked up immediately when I walked in.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“You didn’t sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re twitching,” she said flatly.
I ignored her and tossed Jan’s business card onto my desk.
Marcus noticed it instantly.
“That the guy from last night?”
“Yes.”
“You run him?”
“All night.”
“And?”
“Nothing suspicious.”
Marcus frowned. “Then why do you look like you want to stab somebody?”
Because I think he’s watching me.
Because I think I’ve known him before.
Because part of me wants him to keep watching.
Instead I said, “I don’t trust him.”
Sarah picked up the card carefully.
“Beakers Gallery,” she read. “Fancy.”
“Rich people love pretending paint means culture,” Logan muttered from his desk.
Nobody acknowledged him.
Sarah flipped the card over.
Her expression changed slightly.
“What?” I asked immediately.
“There’s something written here.”
She handed it to me.
I frowned.
The handwriting was different from before.
Meet me.
Tonight.
8 PM.
My stomach dropped.
“That wasn’t there yesterday,” I said quietly.
Marcus looked concerned now. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Nobody spoke for a second.
Then Sarah crossed her arms. “Okay. That’s creepy.”
“You think?” I snapped.
Marcus took the card from me.
“You’re not going alone.”
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
“Hanna.”
“He’s connected to something,” I said firmly. “I know it.”
“Or he’s just obsessed with you,” Sarah replied.
The words lingered heavily in the room.
Obsessed.
The terrifying thing was…
I wasn’t sure which possibility was worse.
That evening, rain poured across the city in heavy sheets.
By 7:45, I was standing across the street from Beakers Gallery.
The building looked expensive. Quiet. Too elegant for someone like Jan.
Warm lights glowed behind massive glass windows displaying strange artwork.
Most of it disturbing.
Twisted faces.
Bleeding flowers.
Bodies melting into darkness.
It felt less like a gallery and more like stepping inside someone’s mind.
His mind.
I should’ve walked away.
Instead, I crossed the street.
The moment I stepped inside, soft music greeted me.
And him.
Jan stood near the back of the gallery in a black suit.
Waiting.
Like he knew exactly when I would arrive.
His eyes lifted slowly to mine.
And he smiled.
“You came.”.
- Writer
