His world had shrunk to a single name: David.
Nothing else mattered.
It haunted him.
That name, that face, that irritating laugh he could still hear when he closed his eyes.
His days had collapsed into a single, looping ritual: Stalk David's socials. Follow him on foot, when possible. Clock into the library job. Go home. Repeat.
David hit the gym three times a week. Ordered takeout on Fridays. Rated garbage Netflix shows five stars like some kind of psychopath.
But not once… not once, had he cracked.
It was like the phone never existed. Or worse... like he didn't care.
A month had passed since Hunter first brought the phone to the police.
Two weeks later, he tried again. Different officers this time.
Still no go. No report. No record. No interest.
One of them even laughed.
That was the day Hunter stopped trying.
Sometimes he thought about the homeless man charged with Kat's murder. A life sentence, not just behind bars but forgotten. And maybe that was what this was.
Hunter's own life sentence.
He didn't talk to anyone, ignoring the few texts that trickled in. The only human contact he got was at the library, and even that was limited to telling people where to find a book.
On the best of days, he felt numb.
On the worst, borderline suicidal.
It wasn't just the loss of his mother that was sending him over the edge.
It was the loss of any purpose in his life, too.
It was the loss of any place of belonging, of feeling like he was making a difference. For others, for himself.
A meaningless existence, wasting away his brain power on shelving volumes and chasing overdue book fines.
Hunter yawned, rubbing the back of his neck. The quiet in the library unnerved him more than ever. It made his thoughts feel even louder and more suffocating.
He wandered between the nonfiction aisles, a half-full return cart creaking ahead of him.
He used to love this place. The silence, the order, the chance to lose himself in the pages of minds greater than his.
Now, it felt like a coffin lined with encyclopedias.
"Excuse me?"
A voice startled him.
A teenage girl stood by the information desk, clutching a worn-out notebook. Her school badge read St. George's.
He blinked at her, like it took his brain a full second to register her presence.
"Uh… yeah?"
"Do you know where the psychology section is?"
He pointed a thumb vaguely to the left. "Row four. Towards the back."
A pause. Then, softer, like muscle memory kicking in:
"If you're after textbooks, try shelves H to M. Clinical stuff's around there."
She smiled politely and thanked him.
He didn't smile back. He just returned to the cart, reshelving books on topics he used to care about: behavioral science, criminal law, moral philosophy.
He used to write papers on this stuff. Now he was manually returning them to their alphabetized tombs.
His hands were clumsy. Twice he shelved books out of order, and didn't realize until minutes later. Once, he dropped a whole stack, the sharp slap of hardback covers breaking the quiet.
Someone shushed him. He didn't look up to see who.
He hadn't slept properly in three nights.
Not unless you counted the two-hour crash on his sofa when the background noise from the TV lulled him into blackout.
He missed the time when he could think clearly, where his mind was like a scalpel. Now it felt like trying to write blindfolded.
He checked his watch. Two hours left on shift.
He didn't even remember clocking in.
When the sun finally dipped low enough to color the streets in gold and ember, he left the library, pulling his hoodie over his head despite the warmth.
The city buzzed faintly with leftover warmth. Everything shimmered faintly – streets, windshields, the distant skyline. It should have been beautiful. Peaceful.
But Hunter's mind was too damaged to feel anything close to peace.
He crossed the street and that's when he saw it.
A black sedan.
Parked a few feet down from the corner, engine off, windows tinted.
That same car again.
He slowed, heart beating a little faster.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen it.
Twice before, once near his apartment and once parked across from the bus stop a few blocks away.
He hadn't thought much of it the first time. Maybe not even the second. But now?
Now he could see the man behind the wheel.
Mid-fifties, sharp features, unbothered expression. Sunglasses. Even in the shade.
His chest tightened.
Don't be ridiculous.
It's just a car. Just a guy. Surely he wasn't being followed.
This is what happens when you marinate in paranoia and five hours of sleep a week.
He shook his head and scoffed under his breath.
Perfect. Maybe next week I'll start hearing voices.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to make sure. To ease his worries.
He turned the next corner and ducked into a convenience store without breaking stride. Pretended to browse the drinks aisle, his eyes flicking to the front window.
There it was. The black sedan. Easing past the shop.
Not parked. Not stopped.
Just… cruising.
Following.
Hunter grabbed a bottle of water and clenched it so hard the plastic nearly crackled.
He caught his reflection in the fridge door glass. Pale. Tired. A shadow of the person he used to be.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived and spiraling again.
Or maybe it was something.
He may be broken, and quite literally half the man he used to be, but he wasn't going to take this lying down.
Hunter was anything but a coward. He confronted things head-on.
He paid for the water bottle and left the store with a plan forming in the foggy wreckage of his mind. If he was being followed, he needed confirmation. Because if someone was watching him, Hunter needed to know why.
And he wasn't about to wait around like a sitting duck.
He kept walking, but not toward his apartment. Instead, he made a sharp turn off the main road, cutting through a narrow alley between two apartment blocks.
The shortcut led behind the row of shops, into the rear delivery lots.
Concrete. Bins. Rusted fire escapes. The kind of place people ignored during the day and avoided entirely at night.
Perfect.
He didn't rush. He let the rhythm of his steps stay steady and the car, if it was still there, follow at a natural distance.
He passed a security mirror fixed to the corner of a wall and glanced into it.
There.
The black sedan. Turning in, slow and quiet, like a predator pretending not to hunt.
Hunter's breath came a little shallower.
He turned another corner, this one leading toward the old parking structure that serviced the library and a few of the surrounding businesses.
The upper levels were barely used. He crossed the lot entrance and slipped into the stairwell, climbing to level two. High enough to be away from street view, low enough to still hear the city. The air up here was thick with the late summer heat clinging to every surface.
Hunter found a spot behind a concrete pillar and waited.
Two minutes passed.
Then, the black sedan rolled in. Hunter's chest rose and fell as he crouched slightly, hidden behind the pillar.
His fingers gripped the plastic water bottle again, crinkling it so hard it nearly split. He forced himself to loosen his grip.
The car idled near the stairwell entrance for a second. Then crept forward again.
Hunter stepped out. Right into the open.
The sedan braked, headlights casting a long, warped shadow behind Hunter.
The window rolled down.
The man inside looked exactly the same as before. A bland expression carved into his face like someone had etched it there decades ago and left it unchanged since.
Hunter walked toward the car.
No rush. No panic. Just enough tension in every step to suggest restraint.
When he got close enough, he stopped, one hand loose at his side, the other holding the mangled water bottle like a weapon he'd forgotten he was carrying.
"Lose something?" he asked, voice steady despite the pounding in his ears.
The man tilted his head. "I don't follow."
Hunter let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
"Oh, you definitely follow. You've been behind me twice in the last week. Today makes it three times. So, either you're really into library staff, or you're following me."
The man gave nothing away.
Silence stretched like wire between them.
Then… he smiled.
"I was wondering how long it would take," the man said smoothly, voice low, deliberate.
Hunter's pulse kicked up. "So you have been following me."
"I wasn't hiding," the man replied. "I wanted you to notice."
"I needed to be sure you were ready," he added, reaching into the center console.
Hunter took half a step back, body tensing on instinct, but the man didn't pull a weapon.
Instead he held out a small white card between two fingers, extending it toward Hunter through the open window.
No logo. No letterhead. Just a date, time, and address scribbled in fine black ink.
Hunter took it without a word, eyes scanning the details.
"What is this?" Hunter asked.
The man rested one arm casually on the edge of the window. "Your next move. If you finally want justice, I suggest you show up."
Hunter narrowed his eyes. "And if I don't?"
"Then you can keep wasting your time pacing sidewalks and refreshing socials," the man said, still smiling. "Your call."
He reached for the window control.
"Oh," he added, just before the glass started to rise, "and don't bring friends. This invitation's just for you. Take it or leave it, it's completely your choice."
The window slid shut with a mechanical hum, sealing off any chance of any more answers.
The sedan reversed with precision and rolled down the ramp without a sound, disappearing into the city like a ghost slipping back into the dark.
Hunter stood there alone, card in hand, heart hammering.
The city below buzzed on like nothing had happened.
But something had. Something monumental.
That man knew he had been tracking David.
He looked down at the card again.
Whatever waited for him at that location… it wasn't random.
It was orchestrated.
And somehow, that concerned him even more than being followed.