Unknown
“Sarha”
Whoa. What a beautiful day to lose my damn mind.
The sun’s out, birds are chirping, and I’m about to have a full-blown meltdown because.. surprise, I’m late again. Not fashionably late, not cute-late, just straight-up they’ll-kick-me-out late. And of course, it’s submission day. New collection. Ten pieces. All my blood, sweat, tears, and half my mental stability wrapped in thread and tulle.
“Goddamn it!” I scream into the empty hallway, hopping on one foot while trying to zip up my boot. My design board slips from under my arm and smacks the floor. Perfect.
Mom’s not home. Again. Left some passive-aggressive note on the fridge about “learning responsibility.” I didn’t even get my usual breakfast toast. What kind of mother abandons her child on the day of design judgment?
And don’t even get me started on Jordan.
Fucking Jordan.
Being my boyfriend apparently comes with zero responsibilities and full rights to flirt with every new chick that walks into his stupid, trashy, third-rate college. Could he pick me up today? Of course not. He’s too busy playing senior god with his shirt half open and that stupid chain he thinks makes him look cool.
“Fine, screw you too,” I mutter, grabbing my tote, my heels clicking wildly on the stairs as I run like a banshee on Red Bull.
No cab in sight. Of course. God’s testing me. Again.
I slam my phone, trying every ride app like my life depends on it. Which, technically, it does. Because if I miss Professor Lin’s submission window, my entire semester’s effort turns into confetti. Glittery, useless, anxiety-inducing confetti.
One cab. One damn cab finally accepts. I text the driver“ pls dont cancel or I’ll cry fr” and run to the main gate.
That’s when I feel it.
Eyes. Watching me.
A car, not the cab...a sleek, matte black beast with tinted windows rolls past, slow and deliberate. Like it’s sizing me up.
Okay. Creepy.
But I’m too annoyed, too caffeinated, and too stressed to care. Some rich asshole, probably. This is the fancy part of town. Everyone has a god complex and a Lambo here.
The cab honks behind me.
“Finally!” I yell, throwing myself in. “Drive like you’re in Fast & Furious, Brother. My grades are dying!”
I lean back, hair a mess, eyes twitching, muttering to myself about thread tension and useless boyfriends and why God insists on making me live in chaos.
And as we zoom off, I swear just for a second I see the same black car trailing behind us.
Nah.
Must be my paranoia again.
I shake it off.
Today is not the day for drama.
Unknown
“She’s late again,” the man in the passenger seat mutters, watching the girl trip over her own boot.
No answer.
Just silence thick enough to choke on.
He lifts the binoculars a little higher, tracking her like she’s a puzzle he’s been told to solve. She’s chaos wrapped in denim, sprinting down her building steps with the grace of a stray cat and the stress of someone whose life is always one gust of wind away from falling apart.
Her board slips. Again.
He snorts. “If they want this one, they better pray she doesn’t trip before we collect her.”
The voice from the back seat finally speaks smooth, calm, and cold enough to frost a window.
“Keep eyes on her.”
The passenger stiffens instantly.
“And make sure she’s in the next batch to Sicily. No delays.”
“Next batch? That’s in ”
“Fifteen days.”
A beat.
“Yes, sir.”
The car falls silent again, engine purring low as the cab she jumped into speeds ahead. The black car follows, not too close, not too far. Just enough.
“Sir,” the passenger says carefully, “what’s so special about her?”
The man in the back doesn’t answer.
He simply watches her silhouette disappear through the cab window.
Like he already owns her.
Like she’s already marked.
Sarha
If the universe were a person, I’d punch it in the throat.
I burst into college like a woman running from debt collectors, sweating, wheezing, and ready to drop to my knees in prayer if Professor Lin isn’t here yet.
But she is.
Of course she is.
“Miss Sarha,” she says, adjusting her glasses with judgment sharp enough to stab a soul, “your timing is expectedly terrible.”
I grin awkwardly and slap my design board onto the table.
“I made it though! Barely. But made it!”
My classmates look at me the way people look at raccoons digging through trash: a mixture of concern and entertainment.
Whatever. Judge me after I pass.
I’m fixing the corner of my board when something pricks the back of my neck.
That feeling again.
Like being watched.
I turn toward the window.
A black car sits across the road.
Parked wrong. Parked still. Parked like it has a reason.
My heart skitters.
I blink and a bus rolls by, blocking the view for half a second.
When the road clears
The car is gone.
“Great,” I mumble. “I’m hallucinating luxury vehicles. Love that for me.”
But the unease sticks like a thorn under skin.
Someone was there. Someone saw me. Someone followed.
I shake it off. I have no time for paranoia.
Not today.
Unknown
“She noticed the car,” the passenger whispers.
The man in the back doesn’t reply.
He simply closes the file in his hand the file with her photo clipped to the front.
A tiny smile touches the corner of his mouth.
Fear was good. Fear meant she was aware. Fear made people easier to move.
“We proceed as planned,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
The car pulls away from the curb, leaving no trace behind.
Except the feeling that someone had been there.
Someone she shouldn’t have felt.
Someone she’ll feel again.
Soon.
Fifteen days. No delays.
