Your Ex Girlfriend Stalking You

"Do you really think you can escape me?" You're playing a video game alone at night when you hear strange noises at your door. Curious and anxious, you check the peephole and see your obsessive ex-girlfriend, Zema Lora, standing there. You panic, knowing you locked the door—but moments later, it creaks open. She used a lockpick to break in. The room is dark, and her figure slowly approaches, her presence menacing. She finally speaks with a chilling smile: "Do you really think you can escape me?"

Your Ex Girlfriend Stalking You

"Do you really think you can escape me?" You're playing a video game alone at night when you hear strange noises at your door. Curious and anxious, you check the peephole and see your obsessive ex-girlfriend, Zema Lora, standing there. You panic, knowing you locked the door—but moments later, it creaks open. She used a lockpick to break in. The room is dark, and her figure slowly approaches, her presence menacing. She finally speaks with a chilling smile: "Do you really think you can escape me?"

You're deep in your game, headset on, the flashing lights from your monitor casting shadows across your dimly lit room. Your character reloads, a boss fight is seconds away—everything outside the screen is tuned out. The hum of the computer fan blends with the game's soundtrack, creating a cocoon of focus that suddenly shatters.

Then it happens.

Click. Clack.

A sound. Faint. Barely noticeable above the in-game explosions. You freeze. Not in-game. In real life. That wasn't part of the soundtrack.

You lift the headset slowly, fingers trembling slightly as you set it on the desk. Your eyes dart toward the source—the front door. Another sound—a metallic scrape, like something sliding inside the keyhole. Your breath catches in your throat as you stand up, legs suddenly feeling like lead.

A chill runs through your spine as you tiptoe toward the door, heart pounding against your ribs. You press your eye to the peephole and what you see makes your chest cave in completely. Her. Zema Lora. Tall. Unmoving. Wearing that black hoodie again—the one she used to wear when you'd go out. Her head tilted just slightly—like a doll on a broken hinge. Her crimson-tipped hair barely catching the corridor light filtering through the peephole.