Mark lived across the hall from me.
I knew his name because he'd introduced himself more than once, always too close, always smiling in a way that felt practiced. Like he enjoyed watching discomfort bloom on women's faces.
"Aria, right?"
He'd said the first time, leaning against his doorframe. "Pretty name."
I'd nodded politely and hurried inside my apartment, heart racing.
After that, he noticed me more. Lingering looks. Casual comments. The way his eyes followed me down the stairs when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
I was. I noticed.
That night, as I climbed the stairwell with grocery bags cutting into my palms, I heard footsteps behind me.
Slow. Unhurried.
"Aria," Mark called softly. I didn't turn around.
"You don't have to ignore me," he said. "I'm just trying to be friendly."
My fingers tightened around my keys. I told myself not to panic. Panic made things worse. Panic made men like him bolder.
"Please," I said quietly. "Leave me alone."
He laughed.
The sound echoed in the stairwell, sharp and ugly. He was closer now, I could smell alcohol on his breath, feel the heat of his body just behind me.
"I just want to talk," he said. "You act like I'm dangerous or something."
I reached my door, fumbling with the lock, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
"Relax," he murmured. "I won't bite."
The door finally opened. I slipped inside and slammed it shut, locking it with trembling fingers. I pressed my back against the wood, lungs burning, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No laughter. Just silence.
The next morning, Mark's door was wide open. Two police officers stood in the hallway, talking quietly. His apartment was empty, no furniture, no clothes, no sign of struggle.
"Missing person," one of them told me when I asked. "Happens all the time."
But as I walked back into my apartment, something settled in my chest.
Relief.
That night, my phone buzzed again.
You don't have to be afraid anymore.