Chapter 4 Lipstick and lightning

The storm rolled in with no warning.

One moment, it was calm. The next-thunder cracked the sky in half, and rain hammered the roof like fists demanding entry.

Alina stood by the window, watching the dark clouds boil over the city. Her breath fogged the glass. She hadn't spoken much since the last message. Her silence wasn't fear.

It was calculation.

"I'm not going to be another missing girl," she finally said. "He wants me scared. But I won't give him that."

Damien glanced up from his laptop. "Good. Because fear doesn't stop him. Action does."

She turned. "Then tell me everything."

He hesitated. The kind of pause that meant this will change things.

"Three years ago, my sister Grace started getting strange messages," Damien said. "It started small-anonymous texts, emails, weird packages. Then the photo came. Her. Sleeping. Just like yours."

Alina shivered.

"We reported it," he continued. "But there was no trace. No fingerprints. No sender. Whoever he is, he's smart. Patient. Sick."

"Did she... fight back?"

Damien looked away. "She tried. She left town. Changed her number. Went off-grid."

"Did it work?"

"No," he said. "She vanished two weeks later. No struggle. No evidence. No goodbye."

A beat.

"She screamed too."

Those three words from the last message echoed through Alina like a curse.

She crossed her arms tightly. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Because I didn't want to see that look in your eyes," Damien said softly.

"What look?"

"The one Grace had before she disappeared."

By afternoon, the storm still hadn't let up.

Damien taught Alina how to use a VPN, how to scramble her phone's signal, how to spot a hidden camera. Every time she thought she was being paranoid, he reminded her: paranoia keeps you alive.

They moved through the apartment like shadows, checking corners, closets, vents.

He even taught her how to hold a knife properly. "You stab to stay alive," he said, "not to win."

"You give a lot of survival advice," she muttered.

He shrugged. "I've survived a lot."

Around 6PM, the power went out.

Just like that.

Click. Darkness.

Then thunder again-louder, closer.

Damien moved fast, grabbing a flashlight. "Stay here."

"Like hell I will," Alina shot back, grabbing another from the drawer.

They swept the rooms together, one by one.

Still nothing.

Still quiet.

Still-

Drip.

A slow, steady sound from the hallway.

Alina turned toward it. "Do you hear that?"

Damien followed her gaze. "Yeah."

They moved together, flashlights cutting through the dark. The dripping led them to the guest bathroom.

The faucet was on.

But she hadn't used it since morning.

Damien reached for the handle, but Alina caught his arm.

"Wait."

There. On the mirror.

A smear of lipstick.

One sentence, written slow and careful in deep red:

YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER.

Alina stumbled back. Her pulse crashed in her ears.

Damien cursed under his breath. "He's been here."

"No. We searched everything. We locked everything."

"Then he never left."

They turned in unison, lights scanning the ceiling, corners, vents.

The apartment was silent again.

Too silent.

Alina ran to her bag, heart racing. She dumped the contents onto the couch.

The new phone. Her clothes. Wallet. Makeup. And-

A tiny, black object tumbled out.

No bigger than a coin.

Damien swore. "It's a mic."

"Are you serious?!"

"He's been listening."

Alina's stomach twisted. "To everything?"

"Probably."

Damien grabbed the mic, crushed it in a cloth, and shoved it into a glass of water. The device fizzed, sparked, and died.

But the silence left in its wake felt heavier than the storm outside.

By 10PM, the lights were still out.

The storm raged louder.

Alina sat curled up in a hoodie on the couch, Damien across from her, both of them nursing cups of instant coffee like it was holy water.

"Why lipstick?" she asked suddenly. "Why that message?"

Damien tapped his fingers on the table. "He likes theatrics. And reminders. That this isn't random. That this is personal."

Alina looked at him. "What if he thinks I am your sister?"

He went still.

Then: "It's possible."

The thought chilled her worse than the rain.

Later that night, as the storm began to slow, Damien fell asleep on the couch.

Alina stayed up.

Too wired. Too watched.

She wandered into the kitchen, searching for something-anything-to calm her nerves.

Then she saw it.

The back door.

It was open.

Not wide. Just an inch.

But she remembered locking it.

Her throat closed. "Damien," she whispered. "Damien."

He stirred, groggy. "What?"

"The door."

He was up in seconds, weapon in hand.

Together, they approached it slowly.

It creaked as he opened it wider.

Nothing outside.

Just rain and dark.

And something else.

A box.

Small. Cardboard. No label.

Damien bent, picked it up, and opened it slowly.

Inside was a photo.

A grainy black-and-white shot.

Alina.

On the bus.

Reading. Headphones in. Completely unaware.

Behind her, in the window reflection-

A face.

Too blurry to see clearly.

But close. Watching.

Smiling.

And underneath the photo... a single red lipstick.

The same shade as the one used on the mirror.

Alina couldn't breathe.