Chapter 1 — The Watcher
The first thing Myra noticed was the silence.
It spread slowly across the café, swallowing conversations one table at a time. Cups paused midway to lips. Chairs stopped moving. Even the soft music playing in the background seemed to fade into nothing.
Someone had entered.
She didn't look up immediately. Fear had a strange weight, and she could feel it pressing against the room like a storm waiting to break.
When she finally raised her eyes, she understood why.
A man stood near the entrance.
Dressed entirely in black, he remained motionless, his presence sharp against the warm glow of the café lights. Nothing about him was loud, yet everything about him demanded attention. His gaze moved calmly across the room — observant, calculating — before settling on her.
Not briefly.
Not by accident.
He was watching her.
A chill ran down her spine.
Myra forced herself to look back at her notes, pretending indifference. But the uneasy feeling remained — a quiet certainty that something had shifted the moment he arrived.
People like him did not exist in ordinary places.
People like him brought trouble.
Myra Sen did not believe in coincidences.
As a journalism student, she had spent months chasing whispers — stories buried beneath the city's polished surface. Disappearances no one investigated. Businesses that operated without records. Powerful families whose names were spoken only in hushed voices.
A network of control hidden in plain sight.
Every trail she followed led to shadows.
And lately, she had begun to feel as if the shadows were watching back.
When she finally gathered the courage to glance toward the entrance again, the man was gone.
No sound of the door.
No movement.
No trace.
Only the empty space where he had stood.
A strange unease settled deep within her chest — not fear, but the instinctive awareness of being marked.
Three nights later, the feeling returned.
The streets were unusually quiet as Myra walked home from the university library. A single streetlight flickered above the deserted road, casting long, restless shadows across the pavement.
She sensed it before she saw him.
A presence.
Watching.
Her footsteps slowed. The sound of another pair echoed faintly behind her — steady, controlled, never rushing.
She turned sharply.
The street was empty.
Only darkness.
Only silence.
Yet the feeling persisted — heavy, undeniable.
Someone was there.
The next morning, she found the first warning.
A folded piece of paper rested inside her notebook — a notebook she never left unattended. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded it.
One sentence.
Stop asking questions.
No signature.
No explanation.
The words were written in precise, controlled handwriting — calm, deliberate, almost emotionless.
Someone knew about her investigation.
Someone had access to her belongings.
Someone was close.
From that day onward, the man appeared everywhere.
Outside the university gate.
Across the street from her apartment.
Standing at a distance in crowded places.
Never approaching.Never speaking.Only watching.
Students avoided him instinctively. Strangers moved away without understanding why. An invisible boundary surrounded him — a space no one dared to cross.
Except Myra.
Driven by equal parts anger and curiosity, she finally confronted him.
"Why are you following me?"
Her voice was steady, though her heart was not.
Up close, his expression revealed nothing. His eyes — dark, unreadable — studied her as if measuring something unseen.
"I'm not," he said quietly.
The calm certainty in his voice unsettled her more than denial would have.
"Then explain why you keep appearing wherever I go."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
"You are looking for things," he said at last, "that should remain hidden."
The words were not a threat.
They were a warning.
Myra's jaw tightened. "That's not your concern."
Something shifted in his gaze — not anger, not hostility, but something far more unsettling.
Concern.
Or regret.
"Some truths," he said softly, "destroy the people who uncover them."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow dissolving into darkness.
That night, Myra searched for him.
No identity.No records.No name.
It was as if he did not exist.
And yet he knew her movements.Her investigation.Her questions.
Which meant only one thing.
He was connected to the very darkness she was trying to expose.
For the first time since beginning her investigation, doubt crept into her mind.
Was she uncovering a secret —
—or stepping into a trap?
As she stood by her window that night, staring into the silent street below, a faint movement caught her attention.
Across the road, beneath the dim glow of a broken streetlight, a figure stood motionless.
Watching her.
Waiting.
And in that moment, Myra realized a terrifying truth.
She was no longer searching for the shadows.
The shadows had begun searching for her.
The first thing Myra noticed was the silence.
It spread slowly across the café, swallowing conversations one table at a time. Cups paused midway to lips. Chairs stopped moving. Even the soft music playing in the background seemed to fade into nothing.
Someone had entered.
She didn't look up immediately. Fear had a strange weight, and she could feel it pressing against the room like a storm waiting to break.
When she finally raised her eyes, she understood why.
A man stood near the entrance.
Dressed entirely in black, he remained motionless, his presence sharp against the warm glow of the café lights. Nothing about him was loud, yet everything about him demanded attention. His gaze moved calmly across the room — observant, calculating — before settling on her.
Not briefly.
Not by accident.
He was watching her.
A chill ran down her spine.
Myra forced herself to look back at her notes, pretending indifference. But the uneasy feeling remained — a quiet certainty that something had shifted the moment he arrived.
People like him did not exist in ordinary places.
People like him brought trouble.
Myra Sen did not believe in coincidences.
As a journalism student, she had spent months chasing whispers — stories buried beneath the city's polished surface. Disappearances no one investigated. Businesses that operated without records. Powerful families whose names were spoken only in hushed voices.
A network of control hidden in plain sight.
Every trail she followed led to shadows.
And lately, she had begun to feel as if the shadows were watching back.
When she finally gathered the courage to glance toward the entrance again, the man was gone.
No sound of the door.
No movement.
No trace.
Only the empty space where he had stood.
A strange unease settled deep within her chest — not fear, but the instinctive awareness of being marked.
Three nights later, the feeling returned.
The streets were unusually quiet as Myra walked home from the university library. A single streetlight flickered above the deserted road, casting long, restless shadows across the pavement.
She sensed it before she saw him.
A presence.
Watching.
Her footsteps slowed. The sound of another pair echoed faintly behind her — steady, controlled, never rushing.
She turned sharply.
The street was empty.
Only darkness.
Only silence.
Yet the feeling persisted — heavy, undeniable.
Someone was there.
The next morning, she found the first warning.
A folded piece of paper rested inside her notebook — a notebook she never left unattended. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded it.
One sentence.
Stop asking questions.
No signature.
No explanation.
The words were written in precise, controlled handwriting — calm, deliberate, almost emotionless.
Someone knew about her investigation.
Someone had access to her belongings.
Someone was close.
From that day onward, the man appeared everywhere.
Outside the university gate.
Across the street from her apartment.
Standing at a distance in crowded places.
Never approaching.Never speaking.Only watching.
Students avoided him instinctively. Strangers moved away without understanding why. An invisible boundary surrounded him — a space no one dared to cross.
Except Myra.
Driven by equal parts anger and curiosity, she finally confronted him.
"Why are you following me?"
Her voice was steady, though her heart was not.
Up close, his expression revealed nothing. His eyes — dark, unreadable — studied her as if measuring something unseen.
"I'm not," he said quietly.
The calm certainty in his voice unsettled her more than denial would have.
"Then explain why you keep appearing wherever I go."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
"You are looking for things," he said at last, "that should remain hidden."
The words were not a threat.
They were a warning.
Myra's jaw tightened. "That's not your concern."
Something shifted in his gaze — not anger, not hostility, but something far more unsettling.
Concern.
Or regret.
"Some truths," he said softly, "destroy the people who uncover them."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow dissolving into darkness.
That night, Myra searched for him.
No identity.No records.No name.
It was as if he did not exist.
And yet he knew her movements.Her investigation.Her questions.
Which meant only one thing.
He was connected to the very darkness she was trying to expose.
For the first time since beginning her investigation, doubt crept into her mind.
Was she uncovering a secret —
—or stepping into a trap?
As she stood by her window that night, staring into the silent street below, a faint movement caught her attention.
Across the road, beneath the dim glow of a broken streetlight, a figure stood motionless.
Watching her.
Waiting.
And in that moment, Myra realized a terrifying truth.
She was no longer searching for the shadows.
The shadows had begun searching for her.