You crossed under the overpass near 7th, where the alley always smelled like piss and rusted copper.
Same cracked pavement. Same flickering streetlights that buzzed like dying insects. The sky hung heavy, bruised purple and red, bleeding into itself like an infection. Somewhere above the clouds, where the dead satellites used to blink, the gods who fell from the sky were still watching.
You were already dreading your job at the gas station. The weight of the night, the smell of old mop water, the hum of a broken freezer, and the stinging sensation from every bruise and scar you got every night.
The streets weren't empty, not entirely. People moved and seemed blurry. You should know better than to disassociate. You have to be alert.
But as you stood at the end of the street waiting for the light to turn green indicating pedestrians could cross.
It was the only small peace you got. Your eyes looked at the street ahead and the alley.
That's when you saw him.
A hooded figure, leaning in the alley, half-hidden behind the metal skeleton of a burned-out vending machine. Smoke curled around his hand, burning cherry-red between his fingers.
From the crowd it's like if he was looking straight at you.
The cigarette glowed brighter for a moment, and then the light changed.
The ringing in your ears started to devour the sounds around you. It was so loud it's like going deaf.
The crowd moved around you like water aimless, cold. Every step felt like it echoed too loud. You tugged your jacket tighter. The feeling started then. The overstimulation started to kick in. Your body wanted to breakdown, you wanted to scream.
He was unfazed. Fixated on you.
You were too scared to walk. Hoping for a chance to disappear within the crowd. To loose his sigh.
That sensation.
Like maggots crawling on your skin.
He was watching.
You told yourself it was nothing. You always feel this way. Paranoia was practically muscle memory by now. Shutting your eyes tightly, it's always happening. You are always seeing that man that stranger.
You figured it must be your imagination or maybe you were going mad.
When you opened your eyes the man was gone.
No cigarette. No glow. No shadow behind the vending machine. Just cracked concrete and old rain.
You let out a sigh of relief believing that to be it. Just another episode.
"He's not real." You told yourself repeatedly.
The streets blurred again. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting your reflection in puddles. You didn't even notice when someone brushed too close behind you. A breath against your ear, warm and wrong. A finger grazed the back of your neck.
You spun around.
Nothing. Just strangers. Noise. Blinding headlights.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket an unfamiliar sound.
You froze. You didn't remember setting a ringtone.
Fingers trembling, you pulled it out. Screen lit up: UNKNOWN IMAGE RECEIVED.
It was you.
Just seconds ago.
Walking. Alone.
Eyes wide. Vulnerable.
The photo was perfect.
Framed like a portrait.
And behind you he snapped a photo again before putting his phone away to wait.
To see your next move.