"You have to believe me," Reese said, her voice trembling as she pleaded with the officer. "I gave you the video evidence. My medication was tampered with, and I'm not safe. Please, help me."

The young officer looked cornered, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes flicked between Reese and the desk in front of him as if avoiding her gaze might make her disappear. "Ma'am, we're doing everything we can," he stammered, but his words were hollow.

Reese's patience snapped. "You've done nothing! Since yesterday, I've been here, begging for help, and all I've gotten are empty assurances. Assign officers to patrol my neighborhood—just two, that's all I'm asking!"

The officer's hands shook as he adjusted his tie. "We're... we're working on it, ma'am. Please, leave for now."

Her voice dropped, sharp and cold. "If you don't do something in the next two days, I will. And you won't like how far I'll go."

The officer didn't respond. His silence said everything. Reese stormed out, fury and dread twisting in her chest.

At home, Reese tried to distract herself. Chopping vegetables for dinner, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board was the only sound filling the air. For a moment, it felt safe. Normal.

Until she noticed the rose.

It lay on the dining table, a single crimson bloom, vibrant and bold against the polished wood. Next to it was a folded note, its edges crisp, as though it had been placed there moments ago.

Her blood ran cold as she opened it.

"A flower for my flower. But even this pales in comparison to your beauty. Don't be so hard on yourself, my love."

Her hands shook, and her breath quickened. The words, though laced with affection, dripped with possession. She crumpled the note and threw it into the trash with the rose, her voice shaking as she hissed, "Leave me the hell alone."

That night, sleep was a battle she didn't win. When it finally came, it brought no peace.

In her dream, jet-black eyes stared at her, infinite and all-consuming, pulling her into their dark depths. The man who owned them was both familiar and alien. His sharp, angular face was framed by wavy black hair that fell over his brow, nearly obscuring the scar slicing across his lower lip. He was handsome—striking, even—but the cold emptiness in his gaze made her stomach churn.

She jolted awake, her heart hammering. Her room was dark, but something felt... wrong. A chill crept down her spine, and her eyes darted to the open window. She swore she'd locked it before bed.

Her body moved on autopilot as she crossed the room to shut it. Her hands lingered on the latch, the small sound of it clicking into place oddly deafening in the silence.

Then she saw it.

On the table by the window sat a towering bouquet of roses—hundreds of them, their crimson petals unfurling like drops of blood. They hadn't been there before.

Her throat tightened as her eyes caught the note propped against the base of the bouquet. She didn't want to read it. She shouldn't read it. But her trembling fingers betrayed her, unfolding the paper to reveal the same neat, slanted handwriting:

"My love, forgive me for my earlier offering. One rose was an insult to your worth. You deserve more—so much more. These 999 blooms are but a whisper of my devotion. Together with you, they make 1,000. Perfect. Like us. Please, accept this as my apology. You are mine, my little flower. Only mine."

Her stomach twisted in revulsion. The romantic tone of the words made them even more sinister.

Reese backed away, shaking her head as if she could somehow deny the reality of it. "God, leave me alone," she whispered, her voice trembling. She shoved the note and the flowers aside, bile rising in her throat.

The water pounded against Reese's skin, the scalding spray cascading down her back as she tilted her head under the showerhead. Steam filled the bathroom, curling up the glass walls and cloaking everything in a hazy veil. Her muscles ached from the tension of the day, but here, under the heat and the white noise of the water, she could almost forget the unease that had shadowed her every step.

Almost.

Beyond the frosted glass, a figure loomed, still and silent. His broad shoulders brushed against the frame of the door as he leaned casually against it, his arms crossed over his chest.

He watched her.

The dim light threw his face into shadow, but his eyes gleamed through the haze, dark and unwavering. They roamed over her, tracing every movement, every curve, with an intensity that was both reverent and predatory.

The steam softened the sharp angles of his features, but nothing could mask the quiet hunger etched into his expression. The scar on his lip twisted as a faint smile curled, one that spoke of possession, of satisfaction.

She was his, even if she didn't remember it .

Reese reached for the soap, her movements slow and deliberate, oblivious to the eyes drinking in her every action. The sound of the water muffled the faint creak of the floor as he shifted slightly, adjusting his stance for a better view.

He tilted his head, his dark hair falling over his forehead, the motion almost curious. Almost tender.

"You're perfect," he murmured under his breath, his voice so low it barely disturbed the air.

She didn't hear him. She didn't sense him.

Reese closed her eyes, rinsing the soap from her arms, the rivulets of water trailing down her skin. Her mind drifted, replaying the strange events of the day—the misplaced keys, the feeling of being watched, the roses left on her doorstep with a note. A shiver rippled through her despite the heat of the shower.

His smile widened, as though he could read her thoughts.

"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered, his fingers brushing against the edge of the doorframe. "You know I'm here, even if you won't admit it."

He didn't move closer. Not yet. This moment wasn't about taking; it was about savoring. Watching her in her most vulnerable state, completely unaware, was a thrill unlike any other.

Reese sighed, shutting off the water with a squeak of the handle. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of droplets falling from her hair onto the tile.

She reached for her towel, wrapping it around herself as she stepped out of the shower. Her bare feet padded softly on the cold floor as she moved to the mirror, wiping a hand across the fogged glass.

The reflection stared back at her, pale and tired but alone.

Behind her, the steam swirled, momentarily thickening, obscuring the shadows. By the time she turned around to grab her robe, he was already gone, the faint scent of smoke the only trace he had left behind.

Reese pulled the towel tighter around herself, a sudden chill prickling her skin. She glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowing, but there was nothing.

Just the faint drip of the showerhead.

She didn't notice the small object placed carefully on the counter—her necklace, the one that had gone missing a week ago, gleaming against the white porcelain.

But he noticed.

From the darkness beyond her bathroom door, he lingered, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"Soon," he whispered, his voice dissolving into the silence. "You'll understand."

Outside, he stood in the shadows, the faint glow of his cigarette the only sign of his presence. He pulled up his hood, his smirk deepening as he murmured into a phone. "Make sure the alarms work, Max. I don't want anyone hurting her. Not even an stray cat."

Inside, Reese resolved to donate every last rose to an old-age home. It was a small act of defiance, a way to reclaim some sense of control. But deep down, she knew this wasn't the end.

He wasn't done with her. And somewhere in the night, he was waiting.