Chapter 28
Her
By the time evening settles over the flat, the quiet feels wrong. Not peaceful. Not calm. Wrong. It sits in the air like something alive, heavy and watching, pressing against the walls and filling the space until it feels hard to breathe.
It is the kind of silence that makes every tiny sound feel loud and suspicious. The kind that makes you feel like if you turn around too fast, you might see someone standing behind you.
People always say the same thing when your mind won’t stop racing. Stay busy. Keep yourself distracted. Do something normal. As if normal things can fix a mind that has already been shaken. As if routine can erase memories.
So I cook. Or at least I try to cook.
I stand in the kitchen stirring vegetables in a pan. The spoon moves slowly through the oil, making soft scraping sounds against the metal. The stove hisses quietly.
These sounds should calm me. They should pull me back into the present. But they don’t. They feel far away, like they belong to someone else’s life instead of mine. My body is standing here, doing what it is supposed to do. But my mind is somewhere else entirely.
The past few days have drained me in a way sleep cannot fix. I am not just tired. I feel worn down from the inside, like something heavy is sitting in my chest and refusing to move. Every thought feels slow and thick. And no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps going back to him.
I hate that it does.
I hate that instead of only feeling fear, some small part of me keeps trying to understand him. That part of my mind disgusts me. He is dangerous. He is not normal. He is not someone who deserves understanding or sympathy. He is a monster. I know that. I know that clearly.
So why does my chest tighten every time I think about him?
Why does something inside me react instead of just shutting down in fear?
I grip the spoon tighter and stir harder, like I can push the thoughts away by force.
I do not want to analyze him. I do not want to think about his voice or the way he stands or the way he watches me.
I do not want to feel anything except fear when I remember him.
Anything else feels wrong. It feels like betrayal.
The sharp smell of burning hits me suddenly. I blink and look down. Smoke rises from the pan in thin gray lines. The vegetables are black at the edges now, sticking to the bottom.
“Oh…” I turn off the stove quickly and grab the handle to move the pan away, but my fingers brush the hot metal.
Pain shoots through my hand. “Fuck.”
I jerk my hand back, clutching it against my chest. The burn throbs instantly, sharp and hot, like tiny needles stabbing into my skin again and again.
Tears sting my eyes from the sudden pain. I feel stupid. Stupid for being so distracted that I hurt myself doing something as simple as cooking. Everything in my life already feels like it is slipping out of my control, and now even this proves it.
I rush to the sink and turn on the cold water. I shove my hand under it and hiss softly as the cold hits the burn. It helps a little, but the pain is still there, pulsing. I stand there longer than I need to, just staring at the water running over my fingers, trying to calm my breathing.
After a moment I shake my hand dry carefully and walk to the bedroom cabinet to get ointment. My thoughts are still spinning, about the stalker, the email about Mike, about everything that has been happening lately. Nothing feels normal anymore. Nothing feels safe.
I open the cabinet, grab the tube, and turn around. And there he is. Standing right in the doorway.
He leans against the frame like he has always been there, like he belongs in my room. His arms are folded across his chest. He is completely still. The white mask faces me, smooth and blank and emotionless.
The ointment slips out of my hand and hits the floor with a dull sound that feels too loud in the silence.
A gasp escapes my throat before I can stop it. My whole body freezes instantly. I cannot move. I cannot breathe properly. My heart starts pounding so hard it hurts, like it is trying to break out of my chest.
He does not say anything. He just watches me.
His head tilts slightly, almost curious, like he is studying my reaction and memorizing it. The room is so quiet I can hear my own uneven breathing. My burned fingers still hurt, but the pain feels distant now. Fear is stronger. Fear takes over everything.
He shifts his weight. Then takes a step toward me. Slow. Calm. Unhurried.
Each step makes my chest tighten more. My back presses against the cabinet behind me. I do not even remember stepping backward. My body must have moved on its own.
"How did you get inside?" I ask. My voice shakes badly. He does not answer.
He keeps walking until he is close enough that I can see the faint reflection of the room in his mask. I can see a blurred version of myself staring back at me from its surface.
I glance toward the hallway, my mind screaming at me to run, but my legs feel weak and slow.
"Please," I whisper, swallowing hard. "Just tell me what you want from me. Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep showing up like this?"
His gaze drops. To my hand. To my burned fingers.
Without saying anything, he bends down and picks up the ointment from the floor. Then he straightens again and looks at my hand.
"You should be more careful." He says quietly.
His voice is low. Calm. Almost gentle.
"You should not hurt yourself like this. It is careless."
Something strange moves inside my chest. His gloved hand closes around it firmly but not painfully. He squeezes a little ointment onto his finger and spreads it slowly over my burn.
His touch is careful. Gentle. Controlled. The cool cream soothes the sting almost instantly, but my thoughts start racing so fast I feel light-headed.
Part of me wants to pull away. Another part stays completely still. That second part terrifies me more than he does.
His thumb brushes lightly over my fingers as he finishes applying the ointment, and I swallow hard.
My chest rises and falls unevenly. He is standing so close I can feel his presence like heat against my skin.
I hate that my body notices. I hate that my breathing changes.
I hate that my heart is not just racing from fear anymore.
Why am I reacting like this? Why is my body betraying me?
He tilts his head, watching my face carefully, as if he can see every thought passing through my mind. Then, in a low, calm voice that sounds almost gentle, he says, "Only I am meant to hurt you."
The words slam into me. The strange warmth inside my chest dies instantly, replaced by cold shock. My stomach drops. My throat tightens. The meaning behind those words spreads through me slowly, like poison sinking into my veins.
My breath stutters. Shame burns through me, hotter than the injury on my hand. How could I have mistaken this for kindness even for a second? How could I have felt safe standing this close to someone who just claimed the right to hurt me?
"Why are you doing this to me?" I ask, my voice breaking as tears fill my eyes.
"Why do you keep ruining my life? First you destroyed my reputation at uni, and now you made someone spread rumors about me in my office. What did I ever do to you?"
His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me that he could.
"I do not do such petty things." He says calmly. "Only a coward attacks from behind. I prefer to see fear face to face. I’m seeing it in your eyes right now"
For a second longer he keeps hold of my hand, as if making sure the words sink in. Then his fingers loosen. He lets go, turns, and walks away. Just like that.
No hurry. No hesitation. His footsteps are calm and steady as he leaves the room, like he has all the time in the world and none of this is unusual for him. Like appearing and disappearing inside my flat is the simplest thing imaginable.
I stay frozen where I am long after he is gone, my body still locked in place, my mind struggling to catch up with what just happened.
My heart is still racing so hard it hurts. His words keep repeating in my head.
I’m seeing it in your eyes right now.
My stomach tightens. Heat rushes to my face even though the room is cool. He said it so calmly. Not like a threat. Not like an insult. Like an observation. Like he was simply stating a fact he found interesting.
Slowly, carefully, I step into the hallway. The flat is empty. There’s no sign of him. I check the front door. Still locked from the inside. I check every window. All closed. All latched. Exactly the way I left them.
How did he even get inside?
My legs feel weak as I walk back to my bedroom. That is when I see it. Something lying on my bed.
An iris flower.
The same kind that appeared near the drunk man’s body. The same kind in the email about Mike.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up. A realization slowly settles into my mind, heavy and unsettling. The masked man who just stood here… and the stalker exposing people in my life… they are not the same person.
The masked one never tried to destroy me. In his own twisted way, he has been helping me. Removing threats. The iris is his mark.
I sit on the edge of my bed, holding the flower tightly. Fear twists inside me, but confusion mixes with it. He is not trying to ruin my life. He is shaping it. Deciding who stays and who disappears.
The thought should only terrify me. It does terrify me. But something else is there too. Something small and dangerous that I do not want to name.
I place the flower gently on my bedside table instead of throwing it away.
Then I lie down and stare at it in the dim light. My mind keeps replaying everything, his voice, his silence, the way he touched my hand so carefully, the way he always stops just before crossing a line.
Nothing about him makes sense. Nothing about how I feel makes sense.
I watch the violet petals until my eyes grow heavy. Thoughts swirl together until fear and something softer mix into a concoction I cannot separate. Eventually sleep pulls me under, and the last thing I see is the faint outline of the iris in the dark.