Chapter 21: The Watcher in the Shadows
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The Walk Home – A Path Stained with Anger
The familiar road home stretches ahead, but it doesn't feel the same.
Each step is heavy, weighed down by the day's events.
Jason's smirk.
His mocking words.
The way he looked at me like I was nothing.
The anger in my chest refuses to fade, a slow, simmering fire that won't burn out.
I walk with my head down, fists clenched in my pockets, trying to shake the feeling of humiliation burning beneath my skin.
And then—
A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision.
I stop.
My breath catches.
At first, I dismiss it.
A trick of the light. A shadow cast by the setting sun.
But then—
I see it again.
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A Figure That Shouldn't Exist
A dark silhouette, just beyond the streetlamp.
Tall. Unmoving.
A figure melting into and out of the shadows, shifting like a wraith.
Its form unclear, yet undeniably real.
I blink.
No.
This isn't real.
But my gut twists.
My body knows before my mind can rationalize.
A grim reaper.
A demon.
Something far worse.
It doesn't belong here.
It shouldn't exist.
Yet—
It does.
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Denial and the Truth
I rub my eyes.
Hard.
You're just tired. It's stress. You're imagining things.
The world blurs for a moment.
My breath is short. Uneven.
I inhale sharply, forcing myself to calm down.
When my vision clears—
It's still there.
A shadow.
A presence.
A cold, suffocating weight that presses against the edges of my mind.
This time, there's no mistaking it.
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The Weight of Fear
It stands motionless.
A dark sentinel at the edge of the street.
The air around it is wrong.
Charged. Heavy.
The world feels different.
Suffocating.
The shadows around it seem to bend, pulled toward its form like gravity itself is warping around it.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin.
A primal fear grips my chest, sinking its claws into my ribs.
I can't move.
I can't breathe.
I can't look away.
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A Presence That Shouldn't Be Here
The figure remains.
A jagged wound in reality itself.
Unmoving. Watching.
The dark silhouette stands in stark contrast against the fading afternoon light—a presence that should not exist in the warmth of day.
But it does.
It's here.
It's watching.
Waiting.
For me.