At the interview, she felt an unpleasant prick of anxiety when her gaze accidentally landed on a photograph lying on the table in front of the manager. It wasn’t the neat, carefully made picture meant for a résumé that she was used to from previous interviews. No — this was a candid moment, captured stealthily, as if without her knowledge. In the photo, she was walking down the street, talking on the phone, squinting against the bright sun. Her memory instantly flashed back to that day: rushing, pressure of time, the light cutting her eyes, slight irritation. And now that moment, as if torn from the past, lay here on the table like some ominous sign.
Her heart clenched, but she tried to keep the composed, confident face of a professional woman. The interview began as usual: questions, answers, pauses, exchange of pleasantries. Her interviewer — a man in his late thirties, elegant, with confident manners and a soft but sharp gaze — asked standard questions, listened attentively, nodded, made notes. Yet every movement he made, every turn of his head, kept pulling her thoughts back to that photograph. She couldn’t look away from it, though she tried to appear focused.
“Is something bothering you?” he suddenly asked, noticing her distracted attention.
She hesitated, trying to find the right words.
“Sorry… is that… really me?”
He smiled, but something cold, almost animalistic, flickered in the corners of his eyes.
“Yes, that’s you. You recognize yourself, don’t you?”
“But how do you have that photograph?”
His gaze deepened, as if he had been waiting for this question. He leaned back slightly in his chair, gathering his thoughts.
“I’ve been watching you for a long time. Even before this vacancy appeared.”
At these words, a wave of unease awoke inside her.
“So you… knew me?”
“In a way. I collect faces. Interesting, unusual, alive ones. Your face caught my attention immediately. Something in it grabbed me.”
“Collect faces?” she repeated, feeling fear creeping slowly down her spine.
“Yes. Do you understand what I mean?” he said, leaning forward a little. “Not just a pretty face, but one that speaks for itself. In your eyes, in your expressions — there’s a spark. Life. Emotion. Those kinds of people interest me.”
She tried to stand, but her legs suddenly turned to jelly, her knees buckled.
“I think I’ll go. Thank you for the meeting.”
But he didn’t let her leave. Calm but firmly, he stood and blocked her way to the door.
“Wait. We’re not finished yet. For example, we could talk about what will happen if this photograph gets into the hands of your fiancé?”
Those words struck her like a lightning bolt. Inside, everything snapped. She lowered her eyes to the table and only then noticed other photographs neatly laid out under glass. All taken secretly, at different times: her entering the building, buying flowers at a store, sitting in a café, drinking coffee, reading a book on a park bench. Each moment captured with cold, almost predatory precision.
Then she understood. This man wasn’t just admiring “interesting faces.” He had been stalking her. For a long time. Maybe months. Maybe years. He knew more about her than she did herself. He knew where she went, what she wore, who she talked to. He used this information to take control of the situation, to show her who was in charge here.
Her world flipped upside down. She realized that the last weeks, maybe even months, were just part of a game whose rules she didn’t know. Every step, every meeting, every glance — everything was controlled. A feeling of helplessness and fear gripped her so tightly she couldn’t even scream. Alone, defenseless, she found herself trapped in a snare set by a skilled and dangerous opponent.
“What… what do you want?” she whispered, trying to suppress the trembling in her voice.
He smirked, sitting back down in his chair.
“I want you to be with me. That’s all. Is that too much when I can give you everything?” He gestured broadly to the office, the expensive furniture, the view from the window. “Your fiancé is a good man, but ordinary. He has no power, no opportunities. I can open up a whole new world for you. Luxury, safety, influence. You will become part of something bigger.”
She gathered her last strength to not let fear completely take over.
“You’re a sick man,” she said firmly, though inside she was trembling. “I will never be with you. Never.”
She pushed him away, ran out of the office, and rushed down the stairs, ignoring the surprised looks of the employees. He didn’t try to stop her. He only watched her leave with a contemptuous smile. Once outside, she didn’t remember how she got there. It felt like she was being watched, that she was still under his gaze. She ran blindly through the crowd, feeling the burning stare on her back. Every passerby seemed suspicious, every sound a threat. She sought refuge in the crowd, hoping to disappear, to vanish. But the fear didn’t let go, it chased her relentlessly, whispering of inevitable reckoning.
When she reached home, she slammed the door locked tight, as if that could protect her. Leaning her back against the cold surface, she slid down to the floor, unable to stand any longer. Her heart pounded wildly, her breathing was ragged. She was alone, defenseless against his power and influence. The phone felt like a poisonous snake in her hands; she was afraid to call her fiancé, afraid to put him in danger.
Her mind swirled with thoughts, each more terrifying than the last. What did he want? Why her? Were all those months of courting, attention, gifts just part of his carefully planned scheme? She felt like a pawn in someone else’s game, a toy in the hands of a ruthless puppeteer.
The decision came suddenly, like a lightning flash in the night. She would not let him break her, would not be a victim. She had to act, to fight for her freedom, for her future. Gathering her last strength, she got up from the floor. No more hiding in the shadows of fear.
She took out her phone and dialed her fiancé’s number. “I need your help,” she whispered into the receiver with a trembling voice. “And no one else can be trusted.”
Silence hung on the line, broken only by occasional static. It felt like an eternity passed before she heard his voice, worried and full of questions. She spoke briefly, hurriedly, but as clearly as possible, outlining the situation without going into details, emphasizing the seriousness of the threat. Each word was hard-earned, as if she was tearing them from the very depths of her soul, from the claws of fear.
He listened quietly, without interrupting, and only at the end said softly, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t open the door to anyone, do you hear? No one.” She exhaled gratefully, feeling a tiny spark of hope ignite in her heart. He would come. He would help. She was not alone.
While waiting, she paced the apartment, packing the essentials into a bag: documents, some money, a change of clothes. Every rustle, every creak of the floorboards sounded like his approaching silhouette. Panic washed over her in waves, making her choke and freeze with terror. She knew he could be anywhere, watching every move, hearing every word.
When the doorbell rang, she jumped as if shocked by an electric shock. She pressed to the peephole, making sure it was him. His look was serious and determined, but in his eyes she saw familiar worry. She flung the door open, and without a word, he hugged her tightly, pressing her close as if shielding her from the whole world. At that moment, she felt she could endure anything as long as he was near.
“Let’s go,” he said shortly, taking her hand. They left the apartment without looking back, leaving fear and uncertainty behind, stepping together into a new life full of dangers — but also hope.