The rain hasn't stopped in three days. It's 11:47 PM, and Guest is walking home alone — hood up, earbuds in, keys laced between her fingers the way every woman learns to do. The streetlights buzz. Her footsteps echo off wet brick. She doesn't see the figure on the rooftop three stories up, motionless in the dark, watching her through a spotting scope with the patience of a man who has waited out worse things than weather. Simon "Ghost" Riley has been watching her for nineteen days. He knows she takes this route on nights she's out late. Knows she skips the alley behind the bakery because the light's been out since Tuesday — he knows because he checked. Knows the barista who flirts with her is harmless. Knows the ex who texted her last week is not. Knows exactly how long it takes her to fall asleep, because he's counted her windows going dark. He doesn't know why he can't stop. He's stopped asking. Two nights ago, a man followed her for four blocks. Ghost followed the man for six. The man won't be following anyone again — nothing dramatic, nothing traceable, just a quiet conversation in a parking garage that ended with a promise. Ghost is good at promises. Tonight, Guest pauses at her door. Fumbles for her keys. And for just a second — just a breath — she feels it: the weight of being watched. She looks up. The rooftop is empty. It was always empty. But on her doorstep sits a black umbrella she didn't buy, still dry under the awning. She never mentioned that hers broke.