Terms and Conditions
1381 Words
Arin didn't sleep.
Not really.
She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, the fan slicing shadows across the room in slow circles. Every small sound felt amplified—the pipes in the wall, footsteps outside her door, the occasional buzz of a motorcycle from the street below.
And the camera.
She could feel it without looking.
That was the worst part.
Not the money.
Not even the messages.
Just the awareness.
Like her apartment no longer belonged entirely to her.
By 4:13 a.m., she gave up pretending.
She sat up, tied her hair into a loose knot, and crossed the room barefoot. The tiles were cold against her skin.
The camera sat exactly where she'd left it.
Small. Black. Unbothered.
Arin folded her arms. "You're enjoying this way too much."
Silence.
Of course.
She narrowed her eyes at it like that might somehow annoy the man behind it.
"Creepy," she muttered.
No response.
Her phone sat on the table nearby. Quiet.
She hated waiting for it.
Hated it enough to pick it up and unlock it immediately.
Still nothing.
The chat thread remained open, their last exchange frozen in place.
> After the first sitting.
> No.
> Then we negotiate.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
She locked the phone again.
Absolutely not.
She would not text first.
That felt like losing.
Arin moved toward the kitchenette instead, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove. Her movements were clipped, sharper than usual.
Tea helped.
Tea made things feel normal.
Or at least adjacent to normal.
As the water heated, her eyes drifted toward the stack of bills shoved beneath a fruit bowl.
A bright red notice peeked from the top.
FINAL REMINDER.
She looked away immediately.
The kettle whistled.
She poured the water too quickly, nearly burning her hand.
"Perfect," she hissed.
Her phone buzzed.
Arin froze.
Once.
That was all it took.
She stared at it from across the room, tea forgotten.
Then crossed back and grabbed it.
One new message.
> You're awake.
Her jaw tightened.
> You're watching me at four in the morning?
She hit send before overthinking it.
The reply came almost instantly.
> You're in my line of sight.
Arin blinked once.
Then twice.
Her face hardened.
> That is not better.
A pause.
> I wasn't trying to be better.
She almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the honesty was so irritatingly clean.
No performance. No fake charm.
Just blunt force arrogance.
She typed harder than necessary.
> What exactly do you gain from this?
Longer pause this time.
She pictured him in a cold, expensive place. A penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Minimalist furniture that no one actually used.
Or maybe a bunker.
At this point, both felt equally possible.
Her phone buzzed.
> Control over one variable.
Arin frowned.
> And I'm the variable?
> Yes.
Her mouth fell open slightly.
"No way," she muttered.
She typed:
> That may be the least convincing thing anyone has ever said to me.
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
She hated how much attention she paid to it.
Finally:
> Most people are disappointingly easy to predict.
She leaned against the counter, tea cooling beside her.
> And I'm not?
A longer delay.
> Not yet.
Something in her chest shifted.
Small.
Annoying.
Curiosity again.
She crushed it quickly.
> You broke into my apartment, installed surveillance equipment, and wired me enough money to ruin my week. You don't get mysterious points.
His reply was immediate.
> Ruin your week?
Arin stared.
Was that the part he reacted to?
> Yes. My life was simple before this.
A lie.
And apparently, he knew it.
> No, it wasn't.
Her expression darkened.
She set the phone down face-first.
"Nope."
She picked up her tea and walked toward the window, forcing herself to focus elsewhere.
Outside, dawn was beginning to stain the horizon pale grey. The city looked softer from here, almost forgiving.
A woman below arranged fruit in neat rows beneath a striped umbrella.
A bus dragged itself through traffic.
Normal.
Normal.
Arin took a slow sip.
Then nearly choked when her phone buzzed again.
"God."
She walked back.
One message.
> You haven't touched the canvas since yesterday.
Her eyes snapped to the easel.
To the unfinished portrait she'd abandoned two days ago.
Heat rose sharply up her neck.
> Are you tracking my productivity now?
> I'm observing a pattern.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
> Which is?
Pause.
> You avoid what matters when you're emotionally compromised.
Arin stared at the words until they blurred slightly.
That one landed.
Too cleanly.
Too close.
Her first instinct was anger.
Her second was worse.
Recognition.
She typed slowly this time.
> You've built an entire psychological profile from watching me paint in sweatpants? Impressive.
A beat.
> Not entirely.
Her body went still.
She reread it.
Once.
Twice.
Not entirely.
Her pulse ticked up.
> What is that supposed to mean?
No answer.
Not for thirty seconds.
A full minute.
She stared at the screen, irritation tightening every muscle in her shoulders.
> You ask very few questions about me.
Her brows knit together.
That was true.
And now that he'd pointed it out, she hated that too.
Most people would've spent the night interrogating him.
Who are you?
How did you find me?
Why me?
Instead, she'd focused almost entirely on boundaries. Terms. Control.
Not identity.
Interesting.
Unsettling.
> Should I be asking?
The response took longer this time.
When it came, it was shorter than she expected.
> No.
Arin let out a slow breath.
She studied the word.
A boundary.
His, this time.
That changed something.
Only slightly.
But enough.
She set her tea aside and walked toward the easel. The unfinished canvas stared back at her.
Muted tones. Incomplete structure.
Potential, stalled.
Her fingers brushed the paintbrushes in a nearby jar.
Behind her, the phone buzzed again.
> First sitting. 7 p.m.
She laughed once, incredulous.
> That wasn't a question.
> No.
Arin picked up a brush, turning it between her fingers.
The wood was smooth from overuse.
Familiar.
Grounding.
You're very comfortable giving instructions for someone who wants a favor.
This time, the response came slower.
More deliberate.
> I'm not asking for a favor.
She frowned.
> Then what are you asking for?
The typing bubble appeared.
Paused.
> A necessity.
Arin stared at the words.
Something about that answer unsettled her more than anything else he'd said.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because it didn't feel dramatic.
It felt factual.
Like hunger.
Like oxygen.
Like something stripped of ego.
Her grip on the brush tightened slightly.
> 7 p.m., he sent again.
No punctuation this time.
Just certainty.
Arin looked at the camera.
Then, the money is still sitting in her account.
Then back to her unfinished work.
Every rational instinct in her body told her to walk away.
Block the number.
Report the account.
Rip the camera off of the wall.
Instead, she asked the question she'd been avoiding.
> What do I wear?
The reply came instantly.
> Something honest.
Arin stared at the message.
Then barked out a short laugh despite herself.
"Unbelievable."
But she was smiling.
Just slightly.
And that was infinitely more dangerous than the camera.
She wiped the expression off her face immediately.
No.
Absolutely not.
This was not a charm.
This was not chemistry.
This was a deeply concerning lapse in judgment.
Her phone buzzed one final time.
> And Arin?
She looked at the screen.
Waited.
Another message appeared.
> Don't cover the camera again.
Her eyes narrowed.
She glanced toward the small scarf now draped loosely over a chair.
Not over the camera.
But very clearly moved.
She had touched it in her sleep.
Or nearly had.
A chill worked its way down her spine.
She typed one response.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
> I'm starting to dislike you professionally.
She hit send.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
> That's progress.
Arin stared at the screen, then at the camera.
For the first time since this began, something dangerous settled in her chest.
Not fear.
Not even anger.
Anticipation.
And at precisely that realisation—
She knew she was in trouble.
- Writer
