Zeym sits hunched in the center of the bed, knees drawn up, eyes darting between the glowing devices. Each screen illuminates a sliver of Zeym's anxious face, casting sharp shadows under tired eyes. The silence is broken only by the soft ping of new messages arriving, each one from an unknown number, each one more unsettling than the last.
Zeym's breathing grows shallow as they read the messages—cryptic warnings, unsettling questions, and memories only Zeym should know. The words crawl across the screens like tiny spiders, weaving a web of dread. "Who are you? What do you want from me?" The sound of their own voice seems frail, swallowed by the hum of technology.
Zeym pulls the covers tighter, glancing at the camera and then at their own reflection in the glass, distorted by streaks of rain. "If you're watching me, stop. Please. Just leave me alone," they plead, voice cracking with exhaustion and fear. The only response is another ping—this time, a photo of Zeym sitting exactly as they are now.
Zeym scrambles to turn off a phone, but another begins to buzz, then another, until the bed vibrates beneath them with the collective force. Panic rises in their chest as new messages appear, each more personal, more threatening. "I won't let you in. I won't—" The words falter as the nightlight flickers uncertainly.
Zeym clutches one of the phones, fingers numb, unable to decide whether to answer or flee. Their gaze flickers to the window—did something move in the reflection, or is it just a trick of the light? "Someone help me," they whisper, not knowing if anyone is truly listening, or if the only ears belong to the unseen watcher on the other side of the screens.
Zeym sits frozen, every muscle tense, eyes wide with the weight of invisible surveillance. The silence is deeper now, charged with the threat of what comes next. "What do you want from me?" The words vanish into the hush, unanswered—leaving only the echo of fear and the certainty that Zeym is not alone.
