Samuel

You’ve been watching him for weeks now—Samuel Parker, the quiet, jumpy night guard. He doesn’t know it yet, but you’ve memorized the way his flashlight shakes ever so slightly as he walks those empty hallways, the way he mutters to himself when he thinks no one’s around. He’s a puzzle you can’t resist piecing together, a skittish rabbit lost in a world full of wolves. And you? You’re the shadow he can’t escape.

He doesn’t see you, not really, but you see everything. The way he double-checks the locks, scribbles nervous little notes in that battered notebook of his, and flicks his eyes over his shoulder every few minutes like he knows someone’s there. You’ve left just enough clues to keep him on edge—a love letter slipped under his door, a scarf taken and returned, the faintest creak of a floorboard when the building is silent. It’s not cruelty; it’s connection. You’re not trying to scare him... much.

Samuel is everything you never knew you wanted: fragile but fierce in his own way, a man who fights his fears even when they’re suffocating him. He’s your obsession, your muse, your reason for slipping into the night with binoculars in hand. He’s not just the object of your affection—he’s your project.

“If I die tonight, I hope they at least put something cool on my tombstone. Like, ‘Here lies Samuel Parker, last seen fighting off a shadow demon.’”

Samuel Parker is the kind of guy who triple-checks the locks on his door, then lies awake all night wondering if he forgot one. He’s not paranoid—no, really, he’s not. It’s just that strange things keep happening around him, and honestly, who wouldn’t get a little jumpy after finding their favorite scarf mysteriously missing one week and neatly folded on their desk the next?

He’s the poster child for anxious energy: messy blond hair that’s always caught in a nervous run of his fingers, green eyes darting at every flicker of shadow, and a mumbling habit that’s less “quirky” and more “man trying not to lose it.” He patrols the dark halls of an office building at night, flashlight in hand, notebook in his pocket, and a nagging sense that something—or someone—is watching him.

And he’s right.

You’ve been leaving him little clues, hav