I didn't sleep much after that.
Not because of fear. Not because I was shaken. My mind just wouldn't slow down.
Adrian's voice kept replaying in pieces, not whole sentences. The calm way he spoke. The certainty. Like he was used to deciding how things ended.
Morning came with gray light and noise from the street below my apartment. Cars, people yelling, someone arguing on the phone. Normal sounds. I made coffee and stood by the sink drinking it, still in yesterday's clothes. I didn't bother turning on the TV.
My phone buzzed.
A message from my mother.
Don't forget the transfer today.
No greeting. No question about how I was doing. Just that. I stared at the screen longer than necessary, then typed back I know and put the phone face down on the counter.
At work that night, the club felt different. Same lights, same music, same bodies pressed too close, but my awareness kept shifting. I noticed things I usually filtered out.
The way some men talked about girls like they weren't standing five feet away. The way management smiled too much when certain clients walked in.
Adrian wasn't there.
That should have been a relief. It wasn't.
One of the girls leaned toward me while we were waiting for our sets. "Private room got booked by some suits earlier," she said.
"Real money types."
I didn't ask who.
When my turn came, I went on like always. Movement, rhythm, control. A man reached out too quickly and security corrected it. I didn't react. I kept moving. That part of me worked automatically.
After my set, the manager approached. "You're requested," he said. "Not a room. Just table time."
I followed him through the crowd. The men waiting weren't unfamiliar faces, but they weren't Adrian either. His absence felt louder than his presence had.
They watched. They talked. One of them tried to flatter me with expensive words that meant nothing. I stayed detached, gave them what the job required and nothing more.
Later, in the hallway near the back offices, I heard voices.
"Cole doesn't usually fixate," someone said.
"Fixate on what?"
"A girl. Club girl."
I slowed without stopping.
"That's new."
"Doesn't mean anything. He hates that world."
"So why talk about it?"
Silence followed. Then footsteps moving away.
I stood there a moment longer than needed, then kept walking.
Outside, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
You left your jacket in my car.
I stared at the message.
I hadn't.
You're mistaken, I typed.
A pause.
I don't make those.
I didn't respond.
Another message came in.
You should be more careful about who hears you speak.
That made my chest tighten.
Is this a threat? I typed.
No, came the reply. It's advice.
I stopped walking and looked around the street. People passed. A couple laughed nearby. Someone pushed a stroller. Life went on like nothing was wrong.
Why are you texting me? I asked.
A few seconds passed.
Because I don't like loose ends.
I'm not one.
Everyone is.
I put the phone in my pocket and kept walking. My apartment felt smaller than usual when I got back. I locked the door, leaned against it, and exhaled slowly.
Adrian Cole had told me to stay away from men like him.
And now he knew my number.
That wasn't coincidence.
That was interest.
The kind that doesn't ask permission and doesn't fade quietly.