Chapter Two – The Stranger in the Shadows. Amara’s POV
1160 Words
They said it was an accident.
That the car had skidded off the road just outside the north end of campus and burst into flames.
But accidents didn’t feel this clean.
This… final.
Malik and Brielle were gone.
Dead.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about that man in the shadows—the one who said I’d understand soon.
I didn’t even know his name, yet I couldn’t shake the sound of his voice. The way he’d looked at me like he knew my pain before I’d even spoken it.
I sat alone in my new apartment, a small, two-bedroom in the city that I’d planned to share with Brielle after graduation. Now it felt like a coffin. Cold. Hollow. Still filled with unopened boxes and ghosted plans.
Outside, traffic hummed and honked, but in here, the silence was suffocating.
I sipped lukewarm tea and stared at the unopened envelope from the law firm where I’d just been offered a summer internship. It should’ve felt like everything I’d worked for. But instead of pride, I felt numb.
Lost.
Like a part of me had died with them, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood like a warning.
A message. Unknown number.
> You’re not alone.
I sat up, my fingers tightening around the mug. My stomach flipped.
I typed back before I could stop myself.
> Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
> The one who sees you.
Chills prickled across my arms.
> Stop texting me.
Who are you?
No answer.
I blocked the number and tossed the phone aside, trying to breathe through the spike of anxiety. But something told me it wasn’t over.
I was right.
---
That night, I dreamed of fire.
Of Malik’s voice twisting into screams.
Of Brielle’s laugh melting into ashes.
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, my sheets tangled around my legs.
The window was open.
I never left my window open.
I threw the blanket aside and rushed to it. The screen was still locked. Nothing looked disturbed. But that cold breath of air wrapping around my neck told me something—or someone—had been close.
Watching.
---
The next morning, I went to the campus library. Not for books. Just… safety. Familiar walls. Cameras. People.
Someplace where the world still made sense.
I found myself in the law section, fingers grazing the spines of books I’d read a dozen times. My mind wandered, seeking order, facts, anything I could control.
“He was a predator.”
The voice made me jolt.
I turned, heart hammering—and saw him.
Tall. Dressed in black again. That same shadowed face, though the light from the high windows revealed more this time. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes like night. He looked out of place, like someone carved out of stormclouds and set loose in the real world.
“Excuse me?” I asked, defensive.
“Malik,” he said calmly. “He targeted you. Manipulated you. Used you.”
I stepped back. “And what—you're my avenger now? Who are you? Why are you following me?”
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sadness. “Because no one else ever protected you.”
I stared.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered.
He tilted his head. “To make sure you’re safe.”
“You think following me, sending me creepy messages, sneaking around—that’s safety?”
A flash of something flickered in his eyes—dark, possessive, unrepentant.
“Sometimes,” he said, stepping closer, “the only way to keep something safe… is to make sure no one else can ever touch it.”
I stiffened. “You think I’m something to keep?”
He didn’t answer.
I moved to leave, but his voice stopped me.
“Ask yourself, Amara. Why did the police close the case so quickly?”
I froze.
“What?”
“Their car went up in flames. No skid marks. No sign of braking. No other vehicle involved. And no toxicology report.”
My heart pounded louder than my thoughts.
“How do you know that?”
He leaned in, his breath near my ear.
“Because I watched them die.”
My breath hitched.
“What did you do?”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I made sure they could never hurt you again.”
---
I ran.
I didn’t know how I made it out of the library or onto the street. My legs moved on instinct, my mind swirling in chaos.
He killed them.
He killed them.
Because of me.
Because of what they did.
I wanted justice, not murder. I wanted distance, not… this obsession.
I locked myself in my apartment, paced the floor, heart racing so hard I thought I’d faint. I called the police.
They couldn’t trace the number.
No name.
No record.
No proof.
And no interest in investigating a case already ruled an accident.
---
Days passed.
I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep.
And he was always there.
Not in the open. But in the corners of my vision. A flicker across the street. A tall figure in the crowd. The feeling that someone was watching me every time I closed the blinds.
Then one night, I found a note slipped under my door.
You were meant for more than heartbreak.
You were made to be worshipped.
And I will never let anyone hurt you again.
There was no signature.
But I didn’t need one.
---
I started seeing him in my dreams after that.
Not just watching—but holding me.
His touch soft. His voice gentler than I’d ever heard in waking hours.
“Don’t cry, baby,” he’d whisper in my ear. “You’re not alone anymore.”
I would wake up breathless, my thighs clenched, skin hot.
I hated myself for it.
For wanting his touch. For feeling safe in those dreams.
For wondering if madness and desire sometimes looked the same.
---
A week later, I got the call.
The internship was rescinded. No explanation.
My professor apologized but said something about “an anonymous report,” allegations, suspicion.
Someone was erasing me.
I stared at the phone, cold all over.
And then it hit me.
He wasn’t trying to ruin my life.
He was clearing the board.
Making room.
For himself.
---
That night, I screamed into the dark, “What do you want from me?!”
My voice echoed around the apartment, bouncing off empty walls.
No answer.
Just silence.
Until I turned and saw the envelope taped to the inside of my front door.
Inside was a photo.
Of me.
Smiling.
In my cap and gown, hours before the ceremony.
The picture had been taken from a rooftop across campus.
On the back, in clean, sharp handwriting, it read:
I’ve always been yours.
---
- Writer
