Chapter Five - Eden
Every morning feels normal for the first five minutes—tea, notebook, the hum of traffic outside my window—but the moment I step into the city, that strange prickling sensation returns. A weight between my shoulder blades. A breath at the back of my neck. Something unseen slotting into my shadow.
At first I tell myself it’s nothing but stress. I witnessed something traumatic; of course my nerves are still raw. I keep repeating that explanation until the words lose meaning.
Except it keeps happening.
At the bus stop, while people crowd around me and chatter about their days, I feel it; a presence, close enough that the hairs at the nape of my neck lift. I turn casually, pretending to adjust my bag strap. Nothing. Just commuters scrolling through their phones.
The unease settles in anyway.
Later, inside a crowded library on campus, it hits again while I’m reaching for a book on the highest shelf.
A tightness in my stomach. A prickle under my skin.
As if eyes are following every gesture, every breath, every tiny shift in my posture.
I stand completely still for a moment, listening.
No footsteps. No shadow shifting behind me.
I tell myself I’m imagining it.
Imagination shouldn’t feel this real.
Even in my apartment, with the door locked and the curtains half drawn, I keep glancing at the window.
I hate how easily fear creeps in—how natural it feels to check the corners before I undress, or to pause and listen for footsteps in the hallway after midnight.
The city is always loud, but there’s a new layer beneath it. Something I can’t name.
The worst part is that I don’t know if the danger is real… or if I’ve simply lost my grip on what normal looks like.
By Thursday, the tension knots so tightly in my chest that I feel it in every inhale.
I try grounding myself with routines: my usual walk to the bookstore, my usual seat in the café.
I write reflections on behavioral patterns, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the alley.
The gunshot. The controlled, terrifying stillness of the man behind it.
Simon.
Even thinking his name sends a faint ripple over my skin. I don’t know why. I barely know him. I shouldn’t want to know him at all.
Still, the memory lingers.
I’m heading down a side street near campus when I sense movement from the corner of my eye. A figure stands at the edge of the block, partially shadowed beneath the scaffolding. For a second my heart races so violently I think I might be sick.
Then he steps into the light, and I stop walking.
Simon moves toward me with a quiet confidence that feels too smooth to be accidental.
His stride is measured, his coat falling neatly against his frame.
His gaze fixes on me with an intensity that strips away the noise of the city.
Everything narrows to him—to the line of his shoulders, the calmness in his expression, the heat that prickles across my skin.
He gives me a slight smile. Controlled. Warm on the surface, but not in the eyes.
“Eden,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
My pulse leaps. I hate how obvious it feels inside my chest.
“I didn’t expect to see you either,” I reply. My voice sounds normal, calm, collected. My hands tell a different story; I tuck them into my coat pockets to hide the tremor.
He studies me, head angled slightly to the side, like he’s reading a language only he understands. His eyes flick over my face, tracing every small shift in my expression.
“You look tired,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “Long week.”
“Stress?”
I nod once. “Something like that.”
His gaze softens. Or maybe it just changes in a way I can’t interpret. “This city does that to people.”
There’s something almost gentle in the way he says it, like he’s speaking from experience. There’s another layer beneath it—something darker, something controlled. Standing near him feels like standing at the edge of something deep. Dangerous. Unpredictable.
A few pedestrians walk around us, but it feels like they disappear the moment he steps closer. Not invading my space—just close enough that I feel the gravity of him. My breath shortens.
“You heading somewhere?” he asks.
“Bookstore,” I answer before I think. “I was… clearing my head.”
“Does it work?” His mouth lifts slightly. “The walking?”
“No,” I admit, exhaling. “Not lately.”
He nods like he expected that. Like he knows something I don’t. Like he sees more than I’ve said.
His voice drops lower. “You’re uneasy.”
It isn’t a question. He’s so sure of it that denying it feels pointless.
I shift my weight. “I’ve been… noticing things. Feeling watched.”
He watches me more closely at that, something flickering across his expression so fast I nearly miss it. Concern? Or calculation?
“Do you feel watched now?” he asks.
My pulse stutters. “Yes.” The word slips out before I can soften it.
His jaw tenses almost imperceptibly. “By me?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “Not you.”
Not exactly, anyway. I know he probably has men somewhere that I can’t see.
He steps back half a pace, as if putting more space between us will help. It does, and yet it doesn’t.
“I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t want you afraid of me.”
The statement should relax me. It doesn’t. It feels… deliberate. Like a reassurance shaped by someone who knows exactly how to speak to fear.
There’s something about him that draws me in despite everything. Something familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible. A presence that feels like an echo I’ve been sensing for days.
“I should get going,” I say, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been standing here with him.
He nods. “Stay safe, Eden.”
The simple words carry a strange weight. Protective. Firm. Almost possessive.
I take a breath, give him a small, awkward smile, and turn down the next street. My steps feel uneven, too quick. The back of my neck prickles again, but this time I know exactly what it is.
I glance over my shoulder.
Simon stands where I left him, hands in his coat pockets, gaze fixed on me with an intensity that pins me in place even from half a block away. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t call after me. He just watches.
Nothing about the moment feels accidental.
I force myself to turn away and keep walking, but my thoughts spin relentlessly, tangled between caution and curiosity.
Simon seems polite enough—respectful, even—but there’s a darkness in him that I can’t ignore. A sharp edge beneath the calm. A sense of control that radiates off him in waves.
The farther I walk, the more conflicted I become. Something about him scares me in a way that feels almost… personal. Part of me keeps replaying the way he said my name, like he was testing it, claiming it, memorizing it.
I try to steady my breathing, but the tension coils tighter with every step.
Something is happening. Something I don’t understand. And Simon is at the center of it.
The sun slips behind the buildings earlier than usual, leaving the streets washed in dusky blue. I shouldn’t still be out, but the library kept me late, and the walk home is supposed to be familiar by now. Safe enough. Predictable.
Except nothing has felt predictable for days.
Halfway down the block, the prickling sensation returns—stronger this time, so sharp it pulls the breath right out of my chest. My steps falter.
The street is quieter than it should be, only two restaurants open, their neon signs flickering weakly.
The sidewalks feel emptier too, like the city exhaled and forgot to inhale again.
I keep walking, pretending I don’t feel heat crawling up my spine.
Then I hear it, a footstep behind me.
My pulse kicks hard. I clutch my bag and quicken my pace, heart thudding so loudly I’m convinced it echoes off the buildings. I reach the next intersection; it’s dimly lit, one streetlight broken, the glow from a convenience store barely stretching past its doorway.
I turn the corner, hoping to blend in, but the presence follows. I feel it more than I hear it now, a weight closing in on me. Panic tightens around my ribs.
The alley I pass is darker than it should be. The kind of dark that feels crowded with danger even when empty. I move faster, almost jogging, breath shallow.
A shape detaches from the shadows.
I gasp, stumbling backward. The man steps closer—not quite approaching, but close enough that his outline sharpens into something real, something menacing. He’s tall, hoodie pulled low, hands tucked into his sleeves. Watching me.
My throat closes. I can’t turn left without stepping into the alley. I can’t turn right without brushing past him. I can’t go back because someone is still behind me.
My fingers shake as I reach for my phone.
Before I can unlock it, a sudden burst of headlights floods the street.
The glare cuts across the pavement, bright enough that I throw an arm up to shield my eyes.
The figure near the alley recoils instantly, stepping back, then farther, then disappearing around the corner like a frightened animal.
Footsteps retreat behind me too—fast, scrambling, retreating into the dark.
The light holds steady, idling.
A car sits halfway down the block, engine running, headlights aimed at where I stood frozen seconds ago. The driver doesn’t roll down the window. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t call out.
After a moment, the lights shift away as the car pulls off, slow and unhurried, turning down the street until it fades into the night.
I stand there trembling, breath coming in uneven bursts. It happened too fast. I don’t know what almost happened. I don’t want to know.
I force my legs to move—quick steps, then faster, then as close to running as I can manage without falling apart. By the time I reach my building, my hands won’t stop shaking. I lock the door behind me and slide to the floor, heart hammering against my ribs.
Lucky. I was lucky. Someone happened to drive by at the right moment. That’s what I tell myself over and over until the shaking stops.