The thumping bass from the club still vibrated in Charlie Preston's ears, a phantom pulse accompanying the frantic beat of her own heart. She fumbled with her car keys, her breath catching as the familiar click of the unlock button was immediately followed by the disconcerting thud of the re-lock. Annoyance warred with a prickle of unease. “Seriously?” she muttered, her eyes instinctively flicking up to the tinted car window.

And then she saw it. A second reflection, hazy but unmistakably there, hovering behind her own. The pale face, the dark, intense eyes from the club. Her blood ran cold. She slammed her back against the car door, the handle digging into her spine as she desperately scanned the empty parking lot. Nothing. Just shadows and the distant hum of the city. Her mind screamed 'imagination,' but her trembling hands and the sick twist in her gut told a different story.

Barely making it inside her house, fumbling the keys in her haste, she slammed the door shut, leaning against it, gasping for air. “It’s just your mind playing tricks,” she whispered, trying to calm the frantic thrum of her pulse. Just as she started to compose herself, a sudden, jarring ring echoed through the silent house. The doorbell.

Her eyes darted to the peephole. And there he was. The man from the club, the pale face, standing on her porch, waiting.