The feeling started subtly, a week after I'd crossed the irrevocable line in Crosby's penthouse. It was just a prickling on the back of my neck, the unshakable sense of being watched as I left my apartment building. I'd turn, scanning the street, but there was never anyone there. Just the usual city bustle.
Then, I saw the hooded figure.
It was standing across the street, perfectly still, its face a dark void beneath a nondescript grey hoodie. It wasn't doing anything threatening, just… watching. A cold dread, entirely separate from the heated guilt I carried over Crosby, trickled down my spine. I quickened my pace, my heart thudding, and when I dared to glance back a block later, the figure was gone.
