The alarm screamed before dawn, and Airha jolted upright.
Her eyes darted to the clock—8:30. She was late. Again.
She flew out of bed, grabbed whatever clothes her hands could find, brushed her hair in wild strokes, and ran out the door. Breakfast could wait; survival couldn't.
By the time she reached the office, her breath was short, her palms damp.
She stopped outside the glass building and stared up at it—its mirrored walls gleaming under the morning sun. People walked in confidently, talking, laughing, living the kind of lives she had always dreamed about.
A smile crept to her lips. This is it. My chance.
But as she watched the well-dressed crowd, her excitement thinned into doubt. She looked down at her simple clothes, her scuffed shoes, and for a heartbeat, insecurity bit deep. Do I even belong here?
Then she straightened her shoulders. Forget it. Just walk in.
Inside, everything buzzed with motion. Two women in heels stood near the elevator, whispering.
> "I swear this office is getting harder by the day," one muttered.
"Tell me about it," the other replied. "No one lasts long here. The boss's son? Total nightmare."
Aisha's heart skipped. She glanced at them, pretending not to listen, and stepped into the lift anyway. I can do this. I have to.
When her name was called for the interview, she took a deep breath and walked into the room.
Three people sat behind a long table—one of them clearly in charge. The boss was middle-aged, sharp-eyed, his presence commanding. Airha stood tall, hands clasped, pretending her nerves didn't exist.
> "Good morning," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
He studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly.
> "Usually," he said, "my son handles interviews. He's… strict. A little rude, maybe. But soft-hearted once you know him."
He leaned back in his chair. "He's not here today, so I'm filling in. If you're hired, you'll probably be working with him."
Airha nodded politely, but her curiosity sparked. The boss's son… strict, rude, but soft-hearted?
The interview went smoother than she'd dared hope. When she stood to leave, the door swung open—someone rushing in from the hallway.
A tall man. Very tall.
So tall that Airha couldn't even see his face without tilting her head back. But before she could, he'd brushed past her and disappeared into the room.
For some reason, her heart gave a strange little leap. Could that be him? The boss's son?
She laughed at herself as she walked away. I didn't even see his face. What am I thinking?
By the time she stepped outside, her phone buzzed. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
> "Congratulations, sweetheart," a man's voice said, smooth and teasing. "You got the job."
She froze.
The street noise fell away.
> "Who is this?" she demanded. "And how dare you call me sweetheart?"
Silence. Then the line went dead.
She stood there, phone still to her ear, the echo of that voice curling through her mind.
How did he know? I haven't told anyone yet…
Lost in thought, she didn't see the person coming from the other side until she collided with them. Papers scattered.
> "Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" the woman said quickly, bending to pick them up.
> "No, it's fine," Aisha murmured, distracted.
The woman hurried off, and Airha turned to call after her—but her eyes caught something on the ground instead: a small folded note.
She picked it up. Her name wasn't on it, but the words sent a chill crawling down her neck:
"PlayKids Park, 5 PM."
That was it. No name. No explanation.
Her breath caught. Was this a joke? A trap?
The perfume lingering on the paper—a faint, masculine scent—felt disturbingly familiar. She couldn't place it, but she knew it.
By the time she got home, her nerves were shot. She locked the door, then double-checked it, her heart pounding as if the world outside might reach through the walls.
The hours dragged. 5 PM came faster than she wanted. She told herself she wouldn't go. That it was stupid, dangerous, reckless. But curiosity is its own kind of hunger.
By 4:55, she was standing at the edge of the PlayKids Park.
Children ran and laughed under the sinking sun. Parents talked on benches. It looked harmless—almost peaceful.
Then she smelled it again.
That same perfume.
Strong this time. Closer.
> "Excuse me?" a voice called softly from behind.She turned. No one was there.
> "Is anyone here named—"
The voice stopped mid-sentence.
Silence.
Her eyes darted around. A shadow flickered by the trees. A tall silhouette moved, then vanished as if the air had swallowed it.
Her pulse raced. The sound of children faded.
She took a step back, clutching her bag tighter.
Her phone vibrated again. Same number.
She didn't answer. She just stared at it.
Behind her, the wind carried a whisper—something like a laugh, or maybe just her imagination.
She ran all the way home, locked every door, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
Her phone lay on the table, screen glowing in the dark. The unknown number blinked again.
She didn't touch it.
She told herself it was nothing—just coincidence, just nerves. But deep down, she knew the truth:
Someone out there already knew her name.
And they were not done yet.