CHAPTER FOUR
1160 Words
Julian Mercer
12:06 a.m.
I am already awake.
I always am.
I look at the city outside my apartment window. The city glows in reflections on the glass. The city is Chicago. Chicago never really sleeps. Chicago only gets dim at night. I hear sirens in the distance. I feel the wind pushing between the buildings. I hear the hum of traffic.
The phone sits on the kitchen counter. The phone is within reach.
12:07 is sixty seconds away.
I tell myself that I should not make the call tonight. I tell myself not to call tonight.
She is already anxious. I saw it when she had trembling fingers in the elevator. She felt the pulse jump when the phone vibrated. She is close to breaking.
And that wasn’t my intention.
I never wanted the calls to happen. I never wanted the calls to scare her.
They intended to reassure me. The attempt to reassure made me feel steadier.
12:07.
I press the call button.
The line rings once.
Twice.
She answers.
I do not speak.
I listen.
Her breathing is uneven tonight.
Faster.
She’s scared.
I can hear it in the way her breathing keeps hitching, in the way her voice trembles even when she tries to steady it. Guilt presses into my chest, thin, sharp, impossible to ignore.
I should end this.
I should stop.
But then she whispers, so soft I almost miss it, “Why are you doing this?”
The question lands harder than I expected.
Because the answer isn’t simple.
Because if I tell her the truth, she’ll run.
Because if I don’t, she’ll keep being afraid of me.
The silence stretches. It feels heavier than it should. I’m about to say something, anything, when another sound cuts through.
Not from her end.
From mine.
Another call is coming in.
Private Number.
My stomach drops.
That never happens.
I end the call with Ada immediately and stare at the screen. Private Number. 12:08 a.m.
One minute late.
That’s not my pattern.
I answer.
At first, there’s nothing, just a faint static hum. Then breathing.
But it’s wrong.
Too heavy. Uneven. Not controlled like mine.
A voice comes through. Male. Low. Slightly muffled, like he’s covering the mouthpiece.
“She’s not yours.”
Every muscle in my body goes still.
I don’t respond.
“You think you’re the only one watching?”
There’s something almost amused in his tone, like this is a game to him.
Heat flashes through me. Not fear.
Rage.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” he continues, “but you’re late.”
Late.
The word hits harder than it should.
Then the line goes dead.
For a few seconds, I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.
Someone else is in this.
Someone else has been watching her.
That’s not the problem.
The problem is that he knows I exist.
I replay the voice in my head. Not random. Not reckless. He sounded deliberate. Confident.
Which means he’s been observing long enough to understand the pattern.
Long enough to wait.
I grab my keys.
—
Ada’s building is four blocks from mine.
I chose my apartment carefully. Close enough to reach her quickly. Far enough to avoid suspicion.
The walk feels longer tonight. My mind keeps running through possibilities.
How long has he been watching?
Does he know where she lives?
Has he approached her?
That last thought tightens something in me.
When I reach her street, I don’t go inside. I stay across the road, blending into the darker side of the sidewalk.
Her bedroom light is still on.
Good.
Her curtains are only half drawn.
Not good.
I scan the street. Parked cars. Dark windows. A delivery van I don’t recognize.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it isn’t.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number.
A text.
You can’t protect her.
My jaw tightens.
This isn’t just an obsession anymore.
This is an escalation.
I don’t reply. He wants a reaction. He wants to know he got to me.
Instead, I look back at her window. A shadow moves behind the curtain. She’s pacing.
He’s destabilizing her.
That’s intentional.
Fear makes people careless. Carelessness makes them vulnerable.
I won’t let that happen.
Another text comes in.
12:07 belongs to me now.
The audacity almost makes me laugh.
He wants territory. He wants dominance. He wants me to lose control.
I won’t.
But I will adjust.
Because this isn’t observation anymore.
It’s a competition.
And I don’t lose.
—
Movement catches my eye.
Across the street, near the corner of the block.
A figure standing too still.
He’s not on his phone. Not smoking. Not waiting for a ride.
Just watching.
My body goes calm in a way that surprises me. Real danger doesn’t make you panic. It sharpens everything.
I step back into deeper shadow and watch him.
He’s of average height. Dark jacket. Hands in his pockets. Relaxed.
Too relaxed.
That tells me he’s done this before.
I study the way he stands. The slight tilt of his head. The patience in his posture.
He checks his phone. The brief glow lights part of his face, but he’s too far away for details.
Still, it’s enough.
He isn’t here by accident.
Ada’s bedroom light switches off.
My pulse spikes.
The man shifts his weight, almost like he’s satisfied.
I start walking.
Not toward her building.
Toward him.
Slow. Steady.
He notices. His head turns.
Our eyes meet from across the street.
There’s no confusion in his expression.
No surprise.
Just recognition.
He knows who I am.
And then he smiles.
Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to say, I see you.
Then he turns and walks away.
Not running. Not hurrying.
Like this is only the beginning.
I don’t follow him.
That’s what he wants.
Instead, I stay where I am and memorize everything: the direction he takes, the rhythm of his steps, the way he blends into the city without trying too hard.
This isn’t random.
It can’t be.
He’s somehow connected to her past.
Because no one else would understand 12:07.
No one else would care about timing like that.
Which means something from three years ago isn’t buried the way she thinks it is.
I look back at her building one last time.
Dark windows.
She thinks she’s alone.
She thinks the worst thing in her life is a silent caller in the middle of the night.
She has no idea this just became something else entirely.
Something bigger.
I pull out my phone and block the number.
It won’t matter. Men like him don’t rely on one line.
But it’s a message.
You don’t scare me.
You don’t own this.
You don’t get her.
As I walk back to my apartment, one thought settles in, quiet and certain:
I started the calls to protect her.
But now,
I might have to do worse.
And this time…
It won’t be silent.
- Writer
