Chapter 1: "Who the Fuck is Watching Me?"

Mornings are a scam.

I swear to god, if I wake up one more time, I'm going to start throwing hands with the universe.

I blink blearily at my ceiling, glasses half-falling off my face, and realize two things.

One: I forgot to take them off before passing out again.

Two: Someone is watching me.

I don't mean in the haha, I feel like I'm being watched kind of way. No.

This feels real.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Like I'm pinned under a microscope, nothing but a specimen for some unseen force to study and dissect.

I inhale sharply, the air too thick, too stale. My apartment is a mess—clothes thrown over furniture, empty ramen cups stacked like modern art on my desk. My sketchbook is open on the floor, pages bent, scribbled with drawings I don't remember making.

Great. Another episode.

Another night of fighting myself in my sleep.

I rub my eyes under my glasses and sit up, immediately slamming my knee into my desk. Pain shoots through my leg, but I'm too dead inside to react. I just exhale and accept my fate.

"Good morning to me."

I stumble out of bed, stepping on god-knows-what, and drag myself toward the bathroom. My glasses slide further down my nose, and my messy black hair sticks up at angles that defy physics.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Big mistake.

Dark circles. Skin too pale. The kind of exhaustion that sleep won't fix.

I lean closer, squinting.

"You again?"

The words leave my lips before I even register saying them. I don't know who I'm talking to.

The mirror.

Myself.

Or something else.

I sigh, pushing my glasses up my nose, and splash water on my face. I don't have time for this existential bullshit. I'm already late.

My brain is moving at 2x speed, but my body refuses to keep up. I run around my apartment, knocking over a pile of sketchbooks, nearly trip over my own shoes, and barely avoid smashing my face into the door.

I throw on a hoodie over my wrinkled uniform, grab my bag, and shove my cigarette pack into my pocket. My lighter is nowhere to be found.

Fuck my life.

I grab my phone. Dead.

Even better.

As I sling my bag over my shoulder, something small falls out of the front pocket and lands near my feet.

My ID badge.

I sigh, bending down to pick it up. The plastic casing is scratched, the photo inside slightly crooked. I read my name.

Charssein Noir.

Right. That's me.

I'm about to shove it back into my bag when I notice something.

There's another ID on the floor.

Not mine.

I pick it up slowly, flipping it over to see the name.

Neil Varian.

A student from the same school. My breath catches.

How the fuck did this get here?

I don't know any Neil.

At least, I don't think I do.

A weird sensation creeps down my spine. I shake it off, stuffing both IDs into my pocket and rushing out the door.

I book it down the street, nearly colliding with a cyclist who screams at me in a language I don't understand. I scream back. I don't even know what I said.

I just know I'm late, I don't have my lighter, and I probably look like I haven't slept in five years.

By the time I reach campus, I'm out of breath, sweating, and pissed off at the universe.

I push my glasses up again, glaring at nothing in particular.

Why the fuck am I even here?

Oh, right. Because I'm supposed to have a future or some shit.

I slide into my seat, trying to act normal, even though I feel like my soul left my body five blocks ago.

My professor is already talking about some pretentious art theory bullshit I don't care about.

My sketchbook is open in front of me. I don't remember opening it.

That weird, heavy sensation is back.

Like someone is staring. Hard.

I glance around the room. No one is looking at me.

Then why do I feel like they are?

I shake it off and grab a pencil, trying to focus. My hands move on their own, shading, sketching, creating—

And then I stop.

The drawing isn't mine.

It's a figure.

A shadow. Looming behind me.

I didn't fucking draw that.

My stomach twists. Something is wrong.

I flip the page, breathing unevenly. Ignore it. Ignore it.

But then I hear it.

A whisper.

Low. Too close.

"Charssein."

I flinch. My pencil snaps between my fingers.

What the fuck was that?

"Wow. You look like death."

I whip my head around.

There's a guy sitting next to me.

I don't know him.

He's looking at me like we're old friends, like he belongs here. His uniform is messy, his black tie loosened like he doesn't give a shit. His hair is tousled in that I didn't try but I probably did way.

He's smiling.

Why the fuck is he smiling?

I stare. "Who the fuck are you?"

He tilts his head. "You don't remember me?"

"No?"

He hums. "Weird."

I don't like this.

Something about him feels off.

Not in the serial killer way. More like in the I know something you don't way.

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off—

But then I remember the name on the ID in my pocket.

Neil Varian.

My breath catches.

No fucking way.

I slowly pull out the ID badge and glance at it again, then at him.

The same name. The same face.

Neil notices. His smile widens.

"Oh? You found it."*

My stomach drops.

I swallow. My voice is quieter when I say:

"How did this get in my apartment?"

He leans in slightly, tapping his fingers against his desk. "You ever get the feeling you're being watched?"

I freeze.

My grip on the pencil tightens.

Slowly, I turn to look at him again.

His expression hasn't changed.

Too calm. Too knowing.

I don't reply.

Because I don't trust myself to.

- - -

I leave class as soon as it's over, my thoughts racing.

That guy. Neil.

The drawing. The whisper. The way I feel like my life is on some fucked-up, pre-written script.

I need a cigarette. I need a break from reality.

Outside, I pull a cigarette from my pack, placing it between my lips out of habit. My fingers reach into my pocket for my lighter—

Nothing.

Fuck. Right.

I groan, running a hand through my hair. Of course, today of all days, I forget my damn lighter. I glance around, debating whether to ask someone or just chew on the cigarette like a stressed-out protagonist in a film.

Before I can decide, a flicker of orange catches my eye.

A flame.

I turn.

Neil is standing beside me, holding out a lighter-- My lighter.

He smiles. "Looking for this?"

I don't take it immediately. My brain is stuck on one question.

"Bro what the fuck?"

Neil tilts his head, eyes glinting like he knows something I don't.

"You dropped it." His voice is casual. Too casual. "Or maybe you didn't."

My chest tightens.

I don't remember dropping it.

Slowly, I take the lighter from his fingers. It's warm. Like it's been in someone else's pocket all day.

I don't light my cigarette.

Because suddenly, I don't want to.

Something is wrong.

I can feel it.

The weight of eyes that don't exist.

I don't turn around.

Because I already know.

Someone is watching me.

---

TO BE CONTINUED…