Min-ji woke with a start, her head throbbing as if someone had hit it with a hammer. The morning light cut through the blinds, harsh and uninviting. She squinted at the clock—6:00 a.m. Already. Her stomach twisted, a mixture of hangover and dread curling into her chest.
"Another day to be late at work," she muttered, swinging her legs out of bed and landing on the floor with a soft thud. Every step felt heavy, her body sluggish, as if the alcohol from last night had cemented itself into her bones. She tried to shake it off, to focus on her usual morning routine—shower, coffee, getting dressed—but then the images of the bar flashed unbidden in her mind.
The music. The smells. The man. Her chest tightened, a cold prickle running along her spine. What if he was actually following me? The thought made her stomach lurch, and she had to grip the edge of her dresser to steady herself.
Time was slipping away, and panic bubbled under her skin. She moved faster, skipping over small details: the brush that tipped over, the shirt left unfolded, the socks lying in a heap on the floor. Every motion was rushed, messy, but necessary. "I'm going to be late again," she whispered, tugging at her coat, fumbling with buttons, hoping the frantic energy could somehow make up for lost time.
She almost forgot the little rituals that usually grounded her—the sip of water, the soft inhale before stepping into the world—but fear replaced calm. She yanked the door open and froze. Something small and delicate caught her eye.
A note lay at the threshold, perfectly placed, as if it had been waiting for her all night. She bent down, heart hammering, and picked it up. The handwriting was careful, precise, almost beautiful in its curves, but the content made her blood run cold:
"Take care of yourself. I will always be here."
Her hands shook. She pressed the paper to her chest, feeling a spike of nausea and fear. Goosebumps crawled up her arms. Every instinct screamed at her to throw the note away, to burn it, to hide—but something deeper rooted in her chest whispered that it wasn't just a prank.
She stumbled back inside, pressing the note into her fist. Her head spun, the room tilting around her. She made it to the bathroom just in time, leaning over the porcelain sink and throwing up the remnants of last night's drinks. She gasped, trembling, her hair sticking damply to her forehead. Her reflection in the mirror was pale and haunted.
"Will I even make it to work today?" she whispered to herself, voice cracking. The words sounded small, fragile, almost like a child's plea. And even as she spoke them, she felt it again—a sense of eyes on her. Someone watching. Someone waiting.
Her apartment felt suddenly too large, too open, every shadow a potential threat. The blinds didn't block the sunlight; they just made streaks of brightness that moved across the floor as if they had life. She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to steady her breathing, but it didn't work. Her pulse was loud in her ears. Her stomach knotted. Her fingers trembled.
She grabbed a towel and ran it under cold water, pressing it to her face, letting the shock of it revive her senses. It helped only a little. Her mind kept replaying last night—the bar, the man's eyes, the way he had just watched her without a word. And now the note, simple words on paper, carrying an implication that made her skin crawl.
"What the hell is going on?" she muttered, pacing her small living room. She couldn't stop checking the windows, even though she knew no one could be outside without her noticing. Yet every time she turned, she felt the prickling awareness again, that sensation that someone might be there, just beyond her sight.
She dressed quickly, pulling on clothes without thinking, fumbling with her shoes. Her fingers caught on laces, her stomach twisted again, but she forced herself onward. Coffee. She needed coffee. The machine hissed as it brewed, the smell barely cutting through the nausea, but it was something familiar, something grounding. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.
Even as she tried to settle, she couldn't stop thinking. Who left the note? Was he really following me? Or is my mind just spinning out of control? Each thought sparked a dozen more. The fear wasn't logical. She knew that. But knowing it didn't make it disappear.
She moved through her apartment like a ghost, half-present, half-fighting with her imagination. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a warning. Every car horn outside made her jump. And the note lay on the counter now, unavoidable, its words taunting her silently.
She tried to convince herself that she could go about her day. That she could ignore the fear, push it to the back of her mind, and step into her normal routine. But stepping outside felt impossible. The idea of leaving her apartment, of entering the bustling streets, made her stomach twist, made her breath catch in her throat.
And yet she had to go. Work. Responsibilities. Reality. She couldn't run forever. She took a shaky breath, tucking the note into her pocket—not out of bravery, but because she didn't know what else to do with it.
Walking to the door felt like wading through water. She checked her reflection in the mirror one last time, brushing stray hair from her face. Her eyes looked haunted, but determined. She pushed the door open, stepping into the hallway with trembling legs. The note pressed against her thigh like a hidden warning.
Every shadow in the corridor felt alive, every flicker of light a signal. She forced her pace, keeping her gaze straight ahead, trying not to imagine what might be lurking just out of sight. And when she finally stepped into the morning sun, the city looked ordinary—yet she felt the extraordinary weight of being observed, the inescapable reminder that the man from the bar, or someone else entirely, might still be out there.
Her steps quickened. She couldn't afford to think about it, couldn't afford to dwell on fear. Work. Survival. Breath. Each step was deliberate, a small victory over the panic that threatened to swallow her.
By the time she reached the street corner, her fingers curled tightly around the note, the words burned into her memory: Take care of yourself. I will always be here. The thought of those lines, so innocent on paper yet so sinister in implication, sent another shiver down her spine.
She hailed a taxi, fumbling with her bag and coat, heart hammering, mind racing. The driver glanced at her, eyebrows raised, probably thinking she was another anxious commuter. She ignored him, sliding into the back seat, feeling the warmth of the car and the soft vibration of the engine calm her just a fraction.
But as the city sped by, she couldn't shake the feeling of being followed, the awareness of eyes on her from the shadows outside the glass. The note in her pocket felt heavier than ever, a silent, ominous promise.
Min-ji exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. Today was just the beginning. Somehow, she had to survive the day. Somehow, she had to get through the hours without letting fear take control. And deep down, she knew, the note was only the start of something far larger, far more dangerous than a hangover or a mysterious man in a bar.
The taxi pulled up to her office. She stepped out, careful not to stumble, eyes scanning the street behind her. Everything looked normal—or at least, normal enough. But she knew better. She had felt it in her bones last night, and again this morning.
And as she walked toward the entrance, she realized something she hadn't admitted yet: she wasn't just scared. She was being watched. And she had no idea why.