The Devil's obsession

Episode 3 – The Warning

I didn’t sleep.

The shadows in my apartment stretched longer than they should have. Every creak of the floorboards, every hum of the fridge made me flinch like someone was already inside. My eyes kept drifting back to the window, but the car was gone.

That should’ve made me feel better. It didn’t.

I hugged my knees on the couch, the blanket pulled so tight around me it nearly cut off my circulation. My phone sat in my lap, the screen black. I wanted to call Mia, to tell her everything, but the words wouldn’t come. How could I make her understand something I barely understood myself?

At some point the exhaustion pulled me under. When I woke, sunlight cut through the blinds, harsh and blinding. For a split second, I thought I’d dreamt it all. That yesterday had been nothing more than my imagination feeding off exhaustion.

But then I saw it.

On the floor by my door.

An envelope.

My stomach turned cold. I hadn’t heard anyone come in. I hadn’t heard a knock. Slowly, with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, I picked it up.

Inside was a single piece of paper.

Four words written in sharp black ink.

You can’t hide.

My breath hitched. The walls of my apartment closed in tighter. I dropped the paper like it burned and backed away until I hit the kitchen counter.

This wasn’t just fear anymore. It was real. He was here. He knew where I lived.

And he wanted me to know it too.

I grabbed my phone, fingers flying across the screen. Mia. I need you. Please.

Before I could even hit send, the phone buzzed in my hand. An unknown number. My throat closed up.

I answered.

Silence.

And then—his voice. Low. Dark. Unmistakable.

“You’re mine, Ayla.”

The line went dead.

My hands were numb from clutching the phone. The word Ayla in his voice twisted something cold and raw inside me. The line went dead and the apartment that had felt too small a minute ago now felt like a coffin.

I pressed the back of my head against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. The paper lay at my feet where it had fallen, the four black words swimming if I stared too long. You can’t hide.

Panic hit first—sharp, hot, animal. Then came a rolling, ugly gallop of anger. Who did he think he was? Who gave him the right to stalk me, to break into my home, to whisper threats into my ear over a borrowed connection?

I wanted to call the police. I wanted to gather my things and disappear again. Instead I did what I always did: I breathed, counted to ten, and tried to act like someone who had it together.My thumb hovered over Mia’s name. I typed: I’m at home. Someone called. He knows. Please come.

The message sent and my chest tightened as I waited. Minutes crawled. Then the instant sound of a car door slamming outside made me jump so hard I nearly dropped the phone. Relief hit in a physical wave when I saw Mia’s headlights through the blinds.

She burst in without knocking, scarf half-on, eyes wide and tired. “I told you I was coming,” she said, dropping her bag and rushing to hug me. Her arms were warm and solid, the kind of human pressure that makes panic ease for a second. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I wanted to tell her everything. Instead I handed her the paper and watched her read it. Her face shifted from concern to something harder—fury. “Who the hell sent this?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He called. He said my name.”

Mia sat on the counter, knees bouncing. “We should call the police.”

“No.” The word came out before I could stop it. I hated the sound of it. “They’ll ask questions. They’ll want proof. They’ll ask why I didn’t come forward before. I don’t… I don’t want that.”

Mia’s mouth softened. “You’re scared. I get it. But you can’t do this alone.”

I wanted to tell her how stupid that felt—that needing her now made me feel smaller than the night had already made me. Instead I told her what felt less shameful: “Maybe I leave tonight. Get a room somewhere for a few days.”

Mia’s eyes flashed. “No. You’re not running. We’ll get a police report, I’ll stay with you. You’re not moving because some rich creep wants to play mind games.”

I laughed—sharp and wet. “You’re adorable when you get protective.”

She didn’t smile. “Okay, practical then. We lock the door, take pictures of the paper, check the hallways, call the building manager. I’m not leaving.”

The manager lived downstairs. He was a thin man with a careful smile who knew everyone’s comings and goings. He listened, folded his fingers, and promised to look into the CCTV footage. He promised to ask the building’s night guard to watch the entrance. His voice had the kind of authority that sounded like help, but every promise still felt flimsy.

We took photos of the paper, the windows, the lock on my door. Mia paced and made a hundred small, furious plans. She pulled out a flashlight and checked the corners of the apartment like we were prepping for a storm. She made a pot of coffee and forced me to drink it. She hummed under her breath, the way she always did when she was trying to distract herself and me.

“We’ll get through today,” she said. “Then tomorrow we plan properly. Call your landlord, find somewhere else to crash if needed. But tonight, you’re not alone.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to feel safe on the sound of her words. Instead I felt small and exposed, like someone had taken a photograph of me and hung it somewhere he could always look at.While Mia called the manager and made a useless, necessary police report over the phone, I boxed the paper and slid it into a drawer. I packed a small bag—extra clothes, my ID, a few bills, a worn paperback that had traveled with me for years. Mia packed nothing but a spare charger and her wallet; she said she wasn’t leaving me alone until she had to.

We sat in my living room for hours. Mia scrolled through the building manager’s camera feed on her phone; roots of frustration showed when the footage came up blank for the time the car had been there. Either the camera had been off or someone had known how to blind them. Every missing frame felt like another inch of darkness pushing in.At some point I tried calling someone from my past who might know things—an old caseworker, a woman who had helped me years ago. Her voicemail was full. I thought about calling my mother but the memory of shouting and slammed doors made my throat clench. I didn’t want to drag her into this either.