Chapter 1 Prologue - The Red Light

She tries not to look at the red light anymore.

It lives in the ceiling above the bookshelf-blinking slow, steady, endless. One every five seconds. A pulse, like a second heartbeat she didn't ask for.

Eva lies on the couch with a blanket pulled up to her chin, unmoving. The only light in the apartment is from the hallway and the occasional flicker of passing car lights. It's 2:16 a.m. She should sleep. She hasn't.

There's jasmine tea on the table.

She didn't order it.

Didn't say it aloud, didn't text anyone, didn't even think it clearly. But two days ago, she muttered under her breath while folding laundry: "I miss that jasmine blend from the café." And this evening, it was on her doorstep. No receipt. No message.

She didn't touch it.

It's still warm.

She wraps the blanket tighter and turns her head toward the ceiling, toward the red light that blinks like it has something to say.

Five seconds. Blink. Five seconds. Blink.

She used to think the worst part was being seen. That there was something inherently horrifying about your private moments being public without your consent. But this... this is worse. This is what it feels like to be seen entirely, yet completely alone.

She's not sure which silence feels more humiliating: the one before she knew she was being watched, or the one after she agreed to let it continue.

The apartment is beautiful. Large, white walls. Big windows. Soft rugs. Industrial wood and matte black metal furniture. Clean air. Gentle heat. Nothing creaks. Nothing breaks. The refrigerator is always full. The houseplants never wilt.

It's like the flat was built to remove all excuses for unhappiness.

And still, Eva feels like a dead signal in a perfect satellite.

She gets up and walks barefoot to the bathroom. The tiles are warm beneath her feet. Another luxury she didn't request.

She catches her reflection in the mirror and pauses.

There's nothing wrong with her face. She's still beautiful in that understated, tired kind of way. Black hair up in a loose bun, no makeup, eyes too dark for comfort. Her body looks smaller than it used to. Not from dieting, just... shrunk. Withdrawn. She doesn't cry anymore. The tears come halfway and then vanish before they fall.

She turns off the light.

She walks back to the living room.

She doesn't turn on the lamp. She doesn't open her laptop. She doesn't touch the tea.

She just... stands in the middle of the room, looking at nothing.

There's no clock ticking. No TV buzzing. No phone vibrating. Everything is still.

Except the blinking red light.

She walks closer to the shelf. It's on the ceiling above the far corner now - discreet, nearly invisible. It was probably there since day one.

She stands beneath it and looks up.

"I know you're watching," she says softly. Not angry. Not scared. Just... quiet.

The red light blinks.

She wonders if he's watching right now. Sometimes, she's not sure. She imagines him - faceless, in some high-rise apartment, maybe sitting in front of ten monitors, maybe watching on a phone like it's Netflix.

She doesn't know his name.

She doesn't want to.

He doesn't talk to her. Not really.

There's no schedule. No rules. No commentary. The cameras are in every room except the bathroom - though she still checks twice every day just to be sure.

He's not demanding. He doesn't send messages. He doesn't make her dress up. Doesn't tell her to cook or pose or cry or speak.

He just... watches.

And sometimes, Eva thinks that's worse.

The first week after the contract, she jumped every time the microwave beeped. Every time the wind moved the blinds. Every time the fridge hummed.

Now she doesn't jump. She just... notices.

It's changed her, somehow. The way she walks. The way she breathes. The way she holds her body. As if being perceived is no longer something she can escape, only adapt to.

She thought the new apartment would help her heal. That starting over again-this time with honesty-might give her back some control.

Instead, it just feels like her skin has grown transparent. Her bones exposed. Her grief broadcast in high definition.

She turns to the balcony doors. Draws the curtains. Opens them. Steps outside.

Amsterdam is quiet at this hour. The canal below reflects nothing but shadows. Bikes lean against each other in silence. A cat darts across a narrow railing.

She breathes in the night. Holds it. Exhales.

She whispers, almost accidentally: "I think I'm disappearing."

And then, for the first time in twelve days, the voice speaks.

It's low. Mechanical. Modulated. Impossible to place. Soft enough to seem like it was inside her own skull.

"No. You're becoming."

Eva doesn't move.

She stares out at the dark water for a long time.

Then turns, walks back inside and closes the balcony doors behind her.

The blinking red light follows.