The bar squatted on a narrow London street, its windows permanently clouded with grime and smoke, its sign creaking ominously whenever the wind picked up.

A grotesque name, but it held true for the cut-throat people who came in there for drinks. Men with scarred knuckles and sharper tempers, women with hard eyes and harder laughter—people who carried trouble in their coats and spilled it freely along with their ale. The walls seemed to sweat old violence, soaked into the wood over decades of broken bottles and broken noses.

For some weird reason, (first name) was terribly popular with every person who came in the bar. It didn’t matter how foul the crowd was or how sour the night turned—eyes followed her. Maybe it was her personality, the way she listened just enough to make people feel important. Or maybe it was her looks, soft where the world around her was jagged. She didn’t know. What she did know was that she wore the pretty smile on her face like armor, polished and ready, to gain publicity in the bar, just like one must do to earn. Smiling meant tips. Smiling meant fewer problems. Smiling meant survival.

Until one day, a man called Jason Ripper strutted into the bar asking for Sandra. His reputation arrived before he did, whispered like a warning that never quite reached the ears of those who needed it most. (first name) had been the one to put him in his place, completely unbeknownst of his murderous title, her spine straight and her voice firm when others shrank away. Unfortunately, it turned his obsession to her instead of Sandra.

She’d spoken without fear that day—sharp, witty, dismissive. The sort of tone men like him weren’t used to. The sort that hooked them deep.

The younger girl was forever grateful to (first name), of course—grateful and relieved—but gratitude curdled into fear when Jason’s attention lingered.

Now, (first name) had an unwanted, murderous admirer tailing her all the time, his presence pressing into her life like a blade against skin. And the sore problem was, despite all her furious attempts to avoid him, she enjoyed the attention.

It made her feel seen in a way that frightened her. Desired in a way that scraped against something dark and hungry inside her. Every glance from him was a promise and a threat all at once.

On one such day, a loud bang sounded in the bar when Jason and a few of his men stalked in.

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar. His presence pressed down on the room, thick and heavy, like storm air before lightning. His men fanned out, watchful, possessive of space that didn’t belong to them, making the bar go silent for a moment before the people resumed their talking in hushed tones, slightly more aware now.

The landlord, Sandra's father, was managing the front of the bar. His shoulders stiffened as he looked up.

"All right, Jason? Usual?"

He asked, his voice a little cautious, the way a man speaks when he knows exactly who he’s dealing with.

"Where's my girl? (first name)?"

Jason asked, completely ignoring the man as his sharp eyes did a quick swivel of the bar, scanning faces, corners, shadows.

"Oh, she's about. Pint of best?"

The landlord asked, trying to deviate his attention, but without avail.

"I'll wait for (first name). She pulls a better pint. Know what I mean?"

Jason raised an eyebrow, a smirk growing on his lips, thick with filthy implication.

"Yeah. (first name)!"

The landlord called, voice raising. (first name) stepped out, Sandra following close behind her. The minute (first name) locked eyes with Jason, her stare hardened. Her smile vanished, replaced by something colder. Sandra began serving the other people in the bar, her gaze kept low, hands trembling just slightly as she worked.

"Pint of best, please, (first name). Pulled nice and slow... so I can watch you."

Jason's voice lowered, tilting his head to meet her gaze. (first name's) jaw set at the clearly sexual implication as she poured the drink into the glass, the amber liquid foaming as she pulled the lever to the one containers kept on the counter. Her hands were steady, though her pulse wasn’t. The amber liquid filled the glass, foam cresting just right. She focused on the mechanics of it, anything but the way his eyes traced her fingers.

Hearing those words come out of Jason's mouth, the landlord dropped a glass, the sharp crack echoing through the bar. The sound startled (first name) greatly as she inhaled sharply, her hands freezing for a heartbeat before she forced herself to continue.

"Sorry, Jason. I'm all fingers today. Don't know what's come over me."

The landlord kept his gaze low, apologizing immediately to the man, already stooping to clean the mess as if making himself smaller might help.

"Are you sad? Has someone made you sad?"

Jason asked suddenly, seeing (first name's) lowered gaze, mistaking her restraint for weakness.

"No."

She shook her head, a frown on her face, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"If someone made you sad, (first name), I'd go mental."

Jason said, gazing intensely at her as his voice turned slightly breathless, reverent in its madness.

"I'm fine, Jason."

(first name) snapped. She was the only one who ever dared to. The room seemed to hold its breath.

"You've got romantic trouble. Aye?"

Jason realised with a scoff, the playful smirk on his face turning dark, something ugly flickering behind his eyes.

"Come on, who is he? I will cut him open."

He threatened, a murderous glare in his eyes, as if it were the most natural promise in the world.

"Honestly, Jason, I'm not sad."

(first name) scoffed, forcing a careless tone she did not feel.

"Come closer. Come on. Come on. Come... closer."

Jason gestured with two of his fingers, making (first name) comply with a sharp sigh. She knew better than to refuse him outright—not here, not with witnesses who would look away the moment things turned ugly.

"Everyone thinks you're a good girl. But I know what you are."

Jason whispered, leaning in closer to her face. His breath brushed her cheek, hot and invasive. Her face burned, unwanted heat pooling low in her stomach as memories invaded her mind—his hands gripping, roaming, his mouth tracing her skin like devotion twisted into hunger. No one but the two of them knew. No one else ever would.

"I'll see you soon... my love."

He grinned cruelly, taking her jaw in his index and thumb, pressing down on her bottom lip and deliberately smudging the rouge on her lips before turning around to walk out of the bar. His men followed, laughter low and knowing.

(first name's) face burned as she stepped into the back rooms, fixing her makeup with shaking hands. Her reflection stared back at her, flushed and furious and alive. And knowing, deep in her heart, that yes—despite everything—she would see him soon.

---

The door swung shut behind Jason with a finality that seemed to seal the bar itself, trapping his presence inside even after he was gone. The noise level rose again—forced laughter, clinking glasses, a pretence of normalcy—but it all sounded distant to (first name), muffled as if she were underwater.

She didn’t trust her legs to hold her.

The back room smelled of damp wood and stale spirits, a cramped space cluttered with crates and spare barrels. She braced herself against the counter, fingers digging into the edge until her knuckles whitened. Her reflection in the small, spotted mirror looked wrong—too flushed, eyes too bright, lips still swollen despite her efforts to fix the smudged rouge. She dabbed at it again, harder this time, as if she could erase his touch by force alone.

Her pulse refused to slow.

She hated herself for it.

Out front, she could hear Sandra’s soft voice serving customers, deliberately steady. Sandra wouldn’t come back here unless she had to. They both knew better. The unspoken rule between them was simple: survive the shift first, unravel later.

(first name) inhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders, and stepped back into the bar.

Life went on. It always did.

Hours dragged by in a haze of work. Pints poured, coins exchanged hands, laughter spiked and fell. Men watched her, as they always had, but now their gazes felt dull, harmless—nothing compared to the weight Jason left behind. Every time the door creaked open, her heart leapt before she could stop it. Every shadow seemed sharper, every movement too deliberate.

When the rush finally thinned and the lamps dimmed, the landlord locked the front door with an audible sigh of relief. He said nothing to (first name), but his eyes lingered on her face for a fraction too long. There was worry there. Fear. And something else—guilt, perhaps, that his bar had become a hunting ground.

Sandra joined her behind the counter, shoulders slumped.

“You all right?” she asked quietly.

(first name) nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

Sandra didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she reached out and squeezed her hand once, briefly, before turning away to stack glasses. It was the kindest thing she could have done.

When they finally stepped outside into the cold London night, the street was slick with rain, the lamps casting long, distorted reflections across the pavement. The city hummed softly around them—carriages rattling, distant voices, the ever-present breath of something watching.

They parted ways at the corner, since the girl had walked her to the second last street. Sandra lingered, as if she wanted to say more, then thought better of it.

(first name) walked alone.

Every step felt measured. Every sound behind her made her spine tense. She told herself she was imagining things, that Jason had gone wherever men like him went when they were satisfied. And yet—there it was. The unmistakable sense of being followed. Not footsteps exactly. Just awareness. A pressure between her shoulder blades.

She didn’t turn around.

She never did anymore.

Her room was small, sparsely furnished, tucked above a tailor’s shop that smelled perpetually of steam and cloth. She locked the door the moment she was inside, sliding the bolt home with shaking hands. Only then did she allow herself to sag against it, breath hitching as the night finally caught up with her.

Jason’s voice echoed in her mind, soft and certain. My love.

She pressed her palms to her face, trying to banish the heat that rose unbidden beneath her skin. She told herself she despised him. That she feared him. Both were true.

So was the rest.

Later, lying awake in the dark, she stared at the ceiling as moonlight crept through the thin curtains.

Sleep came in fragments, jagged and shallow. When it did, it brought him with it.

(first name) dreamed of the bar—always the bar. The lamps burned too low, casting warped shadows that crawled along the walls. Glasses shattered without sound. Jason stood at the end of the counter, smiling patiently, as if he had all the time in the world. In the dream, she couldn’t move. Her feet were rooted to the floor, her body heavy, unresponsive, while he simply watched her struggle against herself.

She woke with a sharp inhale, fingers clawing at the sheets.

For a long moment, she lay perfectly still, listening. The building creaked softly, settling with age. Somewhere below, a cart rattled past on the street. Nothing else. No footsteps. No voices. And yet the feeling lingered—that familiar sense of being observed, of attention stretched thin and deliberate across the dark.

She sat up and lit the small oil lamp beside her bed. The light chased away the worst of the shadows, but not the unease pooling in her chest. Her eyes drifted, unwillingly, to the window.

The curtain stirred.

Her breath caught before she could stop it.

Slowly—so slowly it hurt—she stood and crossed the room. Each step felt too loud. She reached out and pulled the curtain aside just enough to peer down into the street.

Empty.

Rain-dark stone, glistening under a single lamp. No figures lurking in doorways. No familiar silhouette leaning casually where it didn’t belong.

Relief washed through her, sharp and disorienting. She let the curtain fall back into place and pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself.

But even as she said it, doubt gnawed at her. Jason never rushed. He never needed to be seen to be present. That was his talent—existing just beyond certainty, letting anticipation do the work for him.

The following days only made it worse.

At the bar, his absence was louder than his presence had ever been. Patrons whispered his name in low tones, eyes flicking toward the door as though expecting him to materialize at any second. The landlord jumped at every sudden sound. Sandra moved like a ghost, quiet and careful.

And (first name)—she felt stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight.

She caught herself looking for him. Watching the door. Wondering when.

That realization sickened her more than fear ever could.

On the third evening, just as dusk bled into night, she found something waiting for her behind the bar.

A single white paper, neatly folded, rested atop the counter where she always stood.

Her stomach dropped.

No one else seemed to notice. The bar buzzed on, blissfully ignorant. Her fingers hovered over the paper, dread prickling her skin. Slowly, she picked it up. It was clean. Immaculate.

No signature. No threats. Just three words, written with deliberate care.

Soon. Be ready.

Her chest tightened as if something invisible had wrapped itself around her ribs.

She crumpled the note in her fist and slipped the glove into her apron before anyone could see. Her hands shook as she poured the next pint, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

That night, she didn’t walk home alone.

She asked one of the regulars—a broad, kind-faced man who smelled of tobacco and ale—to escort her partway. He agreed readily, chatting about nothing of consequence, unaware of the service he was providing.

The pressure eased slightly while he was there.

But the moment they parted ways, it returned tenfold.

She reached her door to find it unlocked.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. She froze, every instinct screaming at her to run—to scream—to do anything other than step inside.

Instead, she did what she always seemed to do with Jason Ripper looming at the edges of her life.

She went in.

The room was exactly as she’d left it. Lamp extinguished. Bed untouched. Nothing disturbed.

Almost.

On her bedside table lay a single red rose, its stem trimmed cleanly, thorns carefully removed. Beneath it sat her missing glove—the one she’d worn the night he’d first taken interest in her. She hadn’t even known it was gone.

Her knees nearly buckled.

He had been here.

He knew where she lived.

Her breath came fast and shallow as she backed away, pulse roaring in her ears. Fear finally surged free, raw and undeniable. This wasn’t the bar anymore. This wasn’t public. This was hers—and he had crossed into it without resistance.

And yet, beneath the terror, something else stirred.

Anticipation.

She hated herself for it even as it curled deep in her chest, dark and treacherous. Jason wasn’t forcing his way into her life. He was weaving himself into it, thread by thread, until she couldn’t tell where her own will ended and his began.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, staring at the rose until her vision blurred.

Soon.

The word echoed in her mind, heavy with promise and threat alike.

Whatever Jason Ripper had planned, it was no longer a question of if.

It was only a matter of when.