Chapter 2: The Watcher's Gaze

The office building where Liam Henderson supposedly worked felt like a monument to mediocrity. Glass and steel reaching toward an indifferent sky, filled with fluorescent-lit cubicles and the quiet desperation of corporate life. I sat at what was apparently my desk, staring at a computer screen that might as well have been displaying hieroglyphics.

Marketing reports. Budget projections. Client presentations. The documents in my email inbox painted a picture of a competent, if unremarkable, junior analyst. But every time I tried to focus on the numbers, my mind drifted back to those text messages. The certainty in that stranger's voice.

I know what you are.

"Henderson! Conference room, five minutes."

I looked up to find my supervisor—Johnson, according to the nameplate on his desk—standing over me with a manila folder. He was a thin man with nervous energy, the kind who probably drank too much coffee and worried about his mortgage.

"The Morrison account," he continued, dropping the folder on my desk. "You were supposed to have the preliminary analysis ready by noon."

Morrison account. Right. I flipped through the folder, hoping something would trigger recognition, some fragment of inherited knowledge that would let me fake my way through this conversation. Nothing. Just columns of numbers that meant absolutely nothing to me.

"I'm still finalizing the data," I said, buying time.

Johnson's expression soured. "Finalizing? Liam, you've had two weeks. The client is expecting—"

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Again.

"Second desk from the window. Blue tie today. You look nervous."

My blood went cold. I glanced toward the window, scanning the building across the street. Nothing but rows of identical windows reflecting the afternoon sun. But somewhere behind that glass, someone was watching me. Right now.

"Are you listening to me?" Johnson's voice cut through my panic.

"Sorry, I—" I started to put the phone away, but another message appeared.

"Tell Johnson you need to reschedule. Family emergency. He'll understand—he did the same thing last month when his mother was in the hospital."

The specificity of it made my skin crawl. This wasn't just someone who knew about Liam. This was someone who knew about everyone around him, someone who had been watching long enough to catalog the personal details of my coworkers.

"Actually," I said, the words feeling strange in my mouth, "I need to reschedule. Family emergency."

Johnson's irritation melted into concern. "Everything okay? Your mom seemed fine when she called yesterday about the company picnic."

Another buzz.

"Good boy. Now tell him your sister called. She's having boyfriend troubles."

"My sister," I said mechanically. "Boyfriend troubles."

Johnson nodded knowingly. "Chloe, right? She's what, twenty? That's a tough age for relationships. Take the afternoon if you need it. We can push the Morrison meeting to Thursday."

I gathered my things with hands that wanted to shake, hyperaware of how exposed I was. The elevator ride down felt endless, each floor a small eternity where someone could be watching through security cameras, cataloging my every movement.

Outside, the city pressed in around me. Crowds of people, any one of whom could be my watcher. Cars crawling through traffic, their tinted windows hiding potential threats. I ducked into the first coffee shop I found, choosing a table in the back corner where I could watch both the entrance and the street.

The phone buzzed again.

"Caffe Nero. Interesting choice. Liam never liked their coffee—too bitter, he said. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

I shot to my feet, scanning the cafe. A businessman typing on his laptop. A college student with textbooks spread across her table. An elderly woman reading a paperback novel. None of them seemed to be paying attention to me, but that meant nothing. Anyone could be watching.

"Sit down. You're making a scene."

I remained standing, my jaw clenched. Another message appeared.

"Third table from the counter. The woman in the red scarf just took your picture with her phone. Smile."

I spun around. There was indeed a woman in a red scarf at the third table, but she was scrolling through her phone, not pointing it at me. Unless...

"Just kidding. But you should see your face right now. Absolutely delicious."

The word 'delicious' sent a spike of primal fear through me. There was something hungry in that choice of words, something that recognized the predator lurking beneath my human facade. I grabbed my coffee and headed for the door, but my phone buzzed again before I could escape.

"Running won't help. I know where you live, remember? I know where you sleep. I know about the photos you stare at, trying to remember a life that was never yours."

I stopped walking. The photos. The shrine to Liam's life that surrounded me every night, taunting me with memories I couldn't access. How could anyone know about that?

"You want answers? Check your email. Personal account, not work. Password is 'Nightshade47'—Liam's favorite flower and his lucky number. Sweet boy, he was. Too trusting."

The possessive tone in that last message made something twist in my chest. This wasn't just about exposure or blackmail. This was personal. Someone had known Liam intimately, and now they were toying with the thing that had taken his place.

I found another coffee shop six blocks away, this one with multiple exits and a clear view of the street. My hands shook as I logged into Liam's email account. The password worked on the first try—another violation, another reminder that I was living in a dead man's digital shadow.

The inbox was mostly spam and work correspondence, but there was one new message, sent just minutes ago. No sender name, just a string of numbers and letters.

The subject line read: "What You Really Are."

I clicked it open.

"You're not human. You're not alive in any way that matters. You're a hollow thing wearing a dead man's face, playing house with people who would run screaming if they knew the truth. But I know, and I'm not afraid."

"You want to know what happened to Liam Henderson? You want to know why you're here, what you are, why you feel so empty inside? I have answers. All of them. But answers come with a price."

"Tonight. Pier 47. Midnight. Come alone, or I'll send the Hendersons a very interesting video of you practicing human expressions in the mirror. Yes, I have cameras in your room. Sweet dreams, monster."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Cameras. In Liam's room. Someone had been watching me sleep, watching me struggle with this borrowed existence, documenting every moment of failure and confusion.

My reflection in the laptop screen wavered, and for a moment, I could swear I saw something else looking back—something with too many teeth and eyes like black holes. The hunger stirred in my chest, a gnawing emptiness that food couldn't fill, that grew stronger with each passing hour.

The coffee shop around me suddenly felt too bright, too loud, too full of heartbeats and warm blood and the electrical hum of human consciousness. I wanted to feed, to drink deeply from the well of life that surrounded me. The urge was so strong I could taste copper on my tongue.

But I couldn't. Not here. Not yet.

I closed the laptop and checked the time. 3:47 PM. Eight hours until midnight. Eight hours to decide whether to walk into what was obviously a trap, or to keep running from truths I desperately needed to understand.

Another message appeared on my phone, this one with an attachment.

"Still deciding? Maybe this will help."

I opened the attachment. It was a photo, taken from across the street and slightly above—probably from the office building I'd been watching earlier. The timestamp showed it was taken twenty minutes ago, right after I'd left work.

The photo showed me standing outside the Caffe Nero, my face a mask of paranoia and barely contained panic. But what made my blood freeze wasn't the image itself—it was what I could see in the reflection of the coffee shop window behind me.

My reflection was wrong. While my body stood solid and real on the sidewalk, the reflection in the glass was translucent, flickering like a bad TV signal. And there, just at the edge of the frame, was a shadow that didn't belong to any visible object—a writhing, organic darkness that seemed to reach toward the camera.

The message that followed was simple:

"See you tonight, Alex. Time to come home."

Alex. Not Liam. For the first time, someone had called me by a name that felt like it might actually belong to me. The relief was so sharp it was almost painful, followed immediately by a terror that cut even deeper.

Someone knew who I really was. And they were done playing games.

I gathered my things and headed for the door, but something made me pause at the threshold. In the reflection of the glass door, I caught a glimpse of my face—and for just a moment, the features seemed to shift and blur, as if the image couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be.

Behind me, the normal sounds of the coffee shop continued. Conversations about work and relationships and weekend plans. The beautiful, mundane symphony of human existence.

But I wasn't part of it. I never had been.

And tonight, I was going to find out exactly what that meant.