Page 130 of Mine To Hunt

The unfamiliarity unsettles me more than recognition would have. Because if he were someone I knew, there would be logic. A motive. A thread I could follow backward. This is a stranger. And that makes it worse.

Chapter 39

Her

Istand up from Mily’s couch with gratitude and unease sitting side by side in my chest. We talked for hours, yet it feels like we only uncovered part of something much darker.

Her story did not comfort me the way I hoped it would, but it confirmed something important. What is happening to me follows a pattern. It has happened before. Knowing that makes me feel slightly less alone, even though the fear is still there, steady beneath my skin.

I look at her sincerely. "Mily… thank you for telling me all of this. I know it couldn’t have been easy to talk about again."

She gives a small nod, her expression calm but serious. "It wasn’t easy." She admits. "But if it helps you understand what you’re dealing with, then it’s worth it."

"I really appreciate it." I say quietly.

"Just be careful, Iris." She adds, her voice turning firm. "Men like him are patient. They watch. They learn things about you without you even realizing it."

"I will." I promise. "I’ll stay alert."

There’s a brief pause before I ask, "If things get worse… or if I figure something out… can I reach out to you again?"

"Of course." She says without hesitation.

"And Iris," she says gently, meeting my eyes, "remember something. Surviving this takes strength. Even when it doesn’t feel like it."

We hug briefly at the door before I step outside into the cool evening air. The sky has darkened into deep twilight, and the countryside feels quiet in a way that makes every sound stand out.

As I sit at the bus stop waiting for my bus, my thoughts keep circling around the photograph Mily showed me and the strange way her stalker stopped harassing her the moment she moved away. The ending of her story feels too clean, too sudden to make sense.

People like that do not simply lose interest overnight. The possibility that he did not stop at all, but only shifted his attention somewhere else, stays with me as I sit there, watching the empty road and waiting for the bus that still hasn’t arrived.

Then I feel it. That familiar sensation of being watched creeping slowly up my spine, like cold fingers tracing my skin. My heart rate spikes instantly.

At first, I look up casually, forcing myself not to react too quickly, telling myself not to jump to conclusions.

Across the street, under a pale streetlight, a man stands perfectly still. The evening is quiet, almost empty, which makes his presence stand out even more.

Even from this distance, his build looks similar. Broad shoulders, solid frame, not bulky but strong. The resemblance is subtle, yet it tightens something deep in my stomach.

He is not pacing or checking his phone like most people would while waiting for a bus. He is completely still. Hands in his pockets. Head slightly lowered. Focused.

The stillness is what unsettles me most. It feels intentional, not casual. His gaze is fixed in my direction. Not wandering, not distracted. Watching.

I try to convince myself that I am overthinking it, that my mind is connecting details because I have been obsessing over that photograph. But then he tilts his head slightly, slowly, in the same deliberate way as the figure in the reflection.

The movement is controlled, almost thoughtful. And in that instant, doubt disappears. My pulse pounds violently in my ears, and a cold wave of realization crashes over me so suddenly that it feels physical.

My stomach drops hard enough to make me nauseous. My fingers tingle and go numb where they grip the edge of the bench. My breathing turns shallow, quick and uneven, as if my lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

The world around me fades into the background, the street, the buildings, the faint morning light, everything blurs until there is only him.

Questions slam into my mind one after another. How does he know I am here? Did he follow me from home? Was he outside Mily’s house, watching us talk? Has he been tracking me this entire time without me ever noticing? The bus still hasn’t arrived, and the delay feels unbearable. Every second stretches painfully long.

Then he starts walking toward me. Not running. Not rushing. Just walking with the same measured pace, as though he has all the time in the world. That calmness terrifies me more than aggression would.

I stand immediately, my legs unsteady, forcing myself to move before fear freezes me completely. I turn and begin walking in the opposite direction, trying not to look like I am fleeing, even though every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run.

After a few steps, I hear the faint rhythm of his footsteps behind me. Steady. Matching mine. I quicken my pace, and so does he. My heartbeat becomes deafening, drowning out the sounds of the street. I glance back, and he is closer now, still composed, still unhurried, which somehow makes it worse.