Across town, parked in the school lot, Harry squints at the screen. His pulse quickens.
"That address…" he mutters. "Wait—that's Grace's apartment complex."
He pulls up an old message where Grace shared her address, confirming the chilling truth.
No time to waste.
Harry calls her immediately. The ringtone rings once, twice, thrice, then goes to voicemail.
"Please..." Harry whispers, breath shaky.
He calls again. The same endless ringing. No answer.
Every second drags like a knife twisting in his gut.
He slams his foot on the gas, tires squealing as he speeds out of the parking lot, adrenaline surging.
Still driving, he calls Julian back on the car's hands-free system.
Julian picks up immediately, voice taut. "Yes?"
"Julian," Harry says breathlessly, "the stalker—the one you sent me info on—he lives in the same apartment complex as Grace."
Julian's stomach tightens, knuckles whitening as he grips the steering wheel.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. I double-checked Grace's old message. It's the exact same building. And she's not answering her phone—not like this ever before."
Julian exhales slowly, fighting to stay calm despite the panic rising in his chest.
"I'm heading to her place now."
He punches the address into the GPS, fingers trembling slightly as he adjusts the rearview mirror and pulls into traffic.
"All right," Julian says, voice low but urgent. "I'm on my way too."
They end the call. Two cars, two hearts pounding fiercely, racing toward the same destination—toward Grace.
Grace.
Julian's mind flashes through memories of her smile, her laugh, the softness in her eyes—and the danger she's in.
The city blurs past as he presses the accelerator harder. Each heartbeat is a desperate prayer. He needs to get there. Before it's too late.
Grace blinks slowly, a heavy throbbing pulse pounding behind her temples. She slowly opens her eyes, but the darkness around her is thick and suffocating—an endless black void broken only by the distant, steady drip of water falling somewhere above her. Each drop lands with a cold, echoing plop, carving the silence into slow, cruel beats.
A sudden sharp awareness shoots through her: something is pressed firmly over her lips—duct tape. The rough edges scrape her skin, muffling the scream that rises in her throat before it can form. Panic surges as she struggles to move, but her wrists and ankles are bound tightly with coarse, unforgiving ropes, secured so firmly that every frantic twist only tightens the knots.
Her back aches against the hard, splintered wood of the chair she's tied to. She tries to steady her breathing, but it comes out ragged and uneven. Desperation claws at her chest. She tries to think clearly, but the fog of confusion clouds her mind. She strains to recall the last thing she remembers—the moment before this nightmare.
Suddenly, it all crashes back.
The dim hallway, the neighbor's easy humming, the clink of recycling bags in his hands, and her own hand holding one of the bags as they descend the staircase. Then the sharp pressure of his large hand suddenly covered her mouth from behind, cutting off her breath and her voice. The struggle. The silence.
That guy… he did this to me.
The realization detonates in Grace's chest like a silent explosion. Her vision trembles—not from tears, but from the sheer force of betrayal. It all falls into place now, piece by horrifying piece. The forced smile, the lingering stares, the way he always seemed to appear from nowhere—he was behind all of it.
Her breathing is erratic, shallow. She tries to move, but her wrists are lashed so tightly to the arms of the cold, iron chair that her fingers have gone numb. Her ankles, bound to the chair legs, ache from the strain.
The basement floor beneath her is rough concrete, cracked and stained, and the air smells of mold, rust, and something metallic.
She searches the room with wide, frantic eyes, heart racing like a trapped animal's. The shadows crawl along the basement walls, long and distorted under the flickering lightbulb that buzzes weakly overhead.
Where's my phone? Where is it?
Her pulse spikes.
It's gone. Of course it's gone. He took it.
The thought freezes her blood just as a loud creak groans from the top of the basement stairs. A long pause. Then the slow, deliberate thud of boots descending, one step at a time. Each one sounds like a countdown.
Her stomach knots.
Then, he appears.
That familiar face—only now it's twisted with something dark, something inhuman. A slow grin spreads across his lips as he enters the light, holding something up in his hand.
"Are you looking for this?" he says, voice dripping with mockery.
Her phone.
Grace's eyes lock on it instantly. She lunges instinctively, the chair rattling against the floor, but the ropes hold her fast. Pain flares in her arms. She lets out a cry, muffled by the thick duct tape wrapped around her mouth. Her lungs scream for air. The scream chokes in her throat, turning into a ragged gasp.
He throws his head back and laughs. Not just a chuckle, but a deranged, stomach-clenching howl that echoes against the basement walls.
"Oh, Grace," he sneers, pacing in slow circles around her like a predator. "You're wasting your energy. You really think you can escape this?" He leans in, just inches from her face, his breath hot and sour. "Just give up. No one's coming."
She glares at him, hatred radiating from her eyes like fire. But behind the fire, there's fear. Panic. Desperation. Her mind is racing, searching for a loophole, a trick, anything—but her hands are tied, her legs too. Her phone—her lifeline—is in the hands of a monster.
Someone has to come. Please, she begs silently. Not just to the basement. To this room. To this very room.
That's when her phone vibrates in his hand.
The sudden sound is so sharp in the silence it feels unreal. Grace freezes. Her eyes snap to the device.
The man's brow arches. He checks the screen, and a grin slithers across his face—slow and unnerving, like oil spreading through water.
"Well, well…" he says, and glances at her again. "Look who's calling you right now."
He turns the screen toward her.
Her heart lurches.
Harry!
That name. That simple, glowing name on the screen feels like a lifeline tied to a thread. But she can't answer. He has her phone. And still, that eerie grin stays plastered across his face.
And then he laughs again—this time, louder, fuller, completely unhinged. Grace recoils slightly, eyes wide.
So this is what madness looks like.
She never thought she'd witness that kind of laughter in real life—laughter with no soul behind it, only chaos.
Tears sting her eyes—not from pain, but from sheer helplessness. From the closeness of salvation and the cruelty of not being able to reach it.
Harry's name continues to flash on the screen.
Grace kicks her bound feet into the air, the duct tape biting into her skin with every movement. The ropes creak, the wooden chair beneath her groaning with the effort of her flailing. It's no use. Her legs can barely move, suspended and tangled in the bindings he's wrapped around her like a spider web. But she still thrashes—anything to fight the terror clawing up her throat.
He watches, amused.
A sneer curls across his lips, his head tilting with mock curiosity as if she's a child throwing a tantrum. That same grin—unsettling, too wide, too calm—never quite leaves his face. His eyes gleam with a feverish, manic light, the kind that makes Grace's blood go ice-cold.
"How many guys are around you, Grace?" he asks softly, the sweetness in his tone sharp enough to cut. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from them?" His voice echoes through the concrete basement, bouncing off the mildew-streaked walls like a ghost refusing to leave.
He steps closer, crouching to meet her eyes.
It takes everything in Grace not to flinch as his face inches toward hers.
"I warned you," he hisses, his breath hot against her skin. "I told you, didn't I? But no… You just had to keep talking to them. Smiling at them. Especially him." His lips twist with disgust. "Julian Lenter. Your professor. Like you thought I wouldn't notice."
His eyes bore into hers, not blinking. There's something feral there—like a wild dog that's stopped barking and started baring its teeth.
"You did this to yourself," he whispers. "If you had listened, if you had obeyed, you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have had to do this."
Grace swallows hard, every muscle in her body coiled like a live wire. Her fury flares up like wildfire, but she forces it down, deep into her lungs, exhaling through her nose in slow, controlled breaths.
Don't give him what he wants.
Then the phone rings.
It's shrill in the silence—an ordinary sound that feels, somehow, sacred. A lifeline.
He glances down at the phone in his hand, his expression twitching into something almost childlike. Curious. Giddy. The screen lights up his face, casting eerie shadows under his cheekbones.
"Well, well," he says with a grin. "What do we have here?"
He turns the screen toward Grace.
Her heart lurches.
Harry.
Harry's calling. Her mind races. He knows something's wrong. Maybe he can find me—maybe—