Chapter 1 — The First Disturbance

Hudson Caldwell

Hudson’s apartment smelled faintly of turpentine, the comfort of familiarity mingling with the faint metallic tang of unease. Her morning ritual had always been the same: coffee first, thick and bitter in a chipped ceramic mug, followed by the slow unraveling of the day in her quiet, paint-speckled sanctuary. But today, the sanctuary felt strained, as if the walls themselves were leaning in too close.

She froze mid-step, her hazel eyes locking onto her paintbrush. It lay on the far end of the room, atop her worn sketchbook. Her breath caught. That wasn’t where she had left it. The brush always rested propped by the sink after cleaning—a rule she never broke. Her routines were meticulous, not out of habit but necessity, a fragile order she needed to keep chaos at bay.

Had she moved it and forgotten? Her mind raced, replaying the moments before bed the night prior. She had cleaned the brush, left it to dry, and checked it once more before lights out. She was sure of it. Her chest tightened as she crossed the room, each step slower than the last. She crouched and picked up the brush gingerly, her fingers brushing against the damp bristles. An unfamiliar scent struck her immediately. She held it to her nose, her stomach churning as the sharpness of cologne mixed with the faint residue of turpentine. Musky. Unfamiliar. Male.

Hudson straightened, the brush trembling in her hand. Her gaze swept over the room like a spotlight, scanning for signs of intrusion. The rest of her tools sat untouched, her paints still capped, her canvases leaning in their usual haphazard arrangement by the wall. The apartment itself seemed undisturbed, and yet the air felt heavier, oppressive, as if something unseen lingered just out of reach.

She gripped the brush tighter, her heartbeat rattling in her ears. Someone had followed her on the train last week, hadn’t they? Her memory flashed to anxious glances over her shoulder, the indistinct sound of footsteps too close behind her, and her heart hammering in her chest as she hurried off at the wrong stop just to lose them. She had convinced herself it was paranoia at the time. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

The apartment’s dim lighting seemed darker than usual, shadows pooling in the corners like something alive. Hudson swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. Maybe she had moved the brush absentmindedly. Maybe the scent was from something she’d brought in unknowingly. Stress could do strange things to the mind, and she’d been under plenty of it—her deadlines loomed, her grief still lingered like a fog, and the city’s relentless noise pressed against her in ways she couldn’t quite articulate. Yes, stress. That had to be it.

A soft knock at the door shattered her thoughts.

“Delivery for Hudson Caldwell!”

Hudson’s heart leapt into her throat. She set the brush down on the counter with deliberate care and moved toward the door. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob, hesitating. She hadn’t ordered anything. The knock came again, a bit louder this time. Her pulse quickened as she unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

There was no delivery person. No package. Just her paint-stained apron hanging neatly from the doorknob.

Hudson froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her apron always hung on the hook by the kitchenette. Always. She stared at it, her mind racing to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. Her hand extended tentatively, brushing against the coarse denim, its familiar texture now foreign and wrong.

Then she saw it: a note, folded and tucked into the front pocket.

Her trembling fingers plucked it free. The paper felt rough, the ink stark and red against its surface. Four words stared back at her, chillingly simple yet deeply unnerving:

*I see the real you.*

Her knees buckled, and she pressed her back against the doorframe to steady herself. The hallway stretched empty before her, silent save for the faint flicker of a faulty overhead light. She leaned out, looking left and right. No movement. No sound of retreating footsteps. But wasn’t there a faint shuffle just moments ago? She wasn’t sure. The silence seemed to mock her.

With a sharp motion, she slammed the door shut and twisted the deadbolt, then engaged the chain lock for good measure. Her hands shook as she rested her forehead against the cool wood, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The apartment, already small, seemed to shrink further, its walls pressing in as if to suffocate her.

Minutes passed—or perhaps hours. Hudson wasn’t sure. She finally peeled herself away from the door and turned back to the note, now lying face-up on the floor. The words seemed to pulse as if alive, burrowing into her mind. She snatched her phone from the counter, her fingers clumsy and cold as she dialed.

It rang twice before Detective Vega’s clipped voice answered. “Vega.”

“I—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, pacing the length of the kitchenette in frantic, jerky steps. “This is Hudson Caldwell. I need to report—someone’s been in my apartment.”

There was a pause. Too long. Too heavy. “Miss Caldwell, I remember your call from last week,” Vega said, his tone flat. “You said you thought someone was following you on the train, correct?”

“Yes,” she hissed, frustration slipping through the cracks of her fear. “And now someone’s been in my apartment! They touched my things. They left me—” Her gaze darted to the note on the floor, her voice faltering as the words *I see the real you* seared through her mind. “They left me a note.”

“What does it say?” Vega asked, his tone devoid of urgency.

Hudson hesitated. The words felt too intimate, too exposing to speak aloud. “It—it doesn’t matter what it says. The point is, someone was here. I—”

“Miss Caldwell,” Vega cut in, his voice hardening. “Do you have any evidence of a forced entry? Broken locks, windows, anything like that?”

“No, but—”

“Then it’s unlikely someone was inside,” he said, dismissive. “If you’re feeling unsafe, I recommend installing better locks or getting a security camera. Without evidence, there’s not much we can do.”

Hudson gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles whitening. “So that’s it? What if they come back? What if—”

“Call us if you see someone breaking in or if there’s an immediate threat,” Vega interrupted. “Otherwise, my hands are tied. Have a good day.”

The line went dead.

Hudson stared at the phone, her hand dropping to her side. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt around her, the walls blurring as her pulse roared in her ears. She was alone in this. Completely, terrifyingly alone.

The note taunted her from the floor. She picked it up, the paper crinkling under her trembling grip. Her gaze flicked to the paint-stained apron still hanging on the doorknob. Its vibrant splashes of color, once a source of pride and comfort, now seemed dull and accusatory. Liv had given it to her when she first moved to the city, a gesture of encouragement and belief in her potential as an artist. Now, it felt like a mockery of her vulnerability.

Her mind raced. Someone had invaded her sanctuary, touched her things, left this note as a message—a declaration. And the worst part? They had done it without leaving a single trace, without a single sound.

A shiver ran down her spine as a single thought took root, sharp and unrelenting:

Whoever they were, they were watching.

And they weren’t done.