My new strategy was simple: become invisible. If I wasn't in class, I was hiding. And the best place to hide on a college campus was the library.

Not the main floor, where students gathered to socialize and pretend to study. I went deep into the bowels of the building, to the Rare Books Room. It was a dusty, forgotten corner of the library, filled with old encyclopedias and manuscripts that no one ever looked at. The air smelled like old paper and leather. It was quiet. It was safe.

I spent three days there, tucked away in a corner carrel, reading ahead for my classes. I avoided the dining hall, living off granola bars I kept in my backpack. I timed my returns to the dorm so I would only be there when Hannah was asleep.

It was working. I was off the radar. Dean hadn't texted, and Hannah had stopped leaving me notes. I was finally a background character again.

On the fourth day, I was wandering the aisles, stretching my legs. The shelves were tall and cramped, blocking out the light from the overhead fixtures. I was alone. Or so I thought.

My foot kicked something solid. It skittered across the floor with a loud clatter, breaking the absolute silence. I jumped, my hand flying to my chest.

I looked down. Tucked between the bottom shelf and the baseboard was a small, black object. I bent down and picked it up. It was a phone. But not a smartphone. It was a cheap, plastic flip phone. A burner.

I turned it over in my hands, frowning. Who would leave a burner phone in the rare books room? It looked brand new, without a scratch on it. I should have taken it straight to the lost and found. That was the logical thing to do.

But a nagging curiosity itched at the back of my mind. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up, glowing an eerie green in the dim light. The battery was full. There was no contacts list, no call history. The only thing on the phone was a single text message.

The sender was listed as "Unknown."

I stared at the screen. Every instinct told me to put it down, to walk away. But my thumb moved on its own, clicking the center button to open the message.

"Hello, Little Lamb."

The words stared back at me, cold and mocking. Little Lamb. A sick feeling washed over me. This wasn't a lost phone. This was left here for a reason.

My thumb hovered over the power button, ready to turn it off and throw it in the trash. But before I could, the phone vibrated in my hand. Another message popped up.

"I was wondering when you'd find it."

My blood ran cold. The phone nearly slipped from my trembling fingers. This wasn't a prank. This was deliberate. Someone had planted this phone here, in my secret hiding spot, and waited for me to find it.

They knew where I was.

I snapped my head up, scanning the aisles. The shadows between the shelves seemed darker, deeper. The silence was no longer comforting; it was suffocating. I was completely alone, but I felt eyes on the back of my neck.

My first thought was Dean. He had warned me. He had said he would be watching. Was this his way of showing me he could find me anywhere?

A wave of anger cut through my fear. I pressed the button to reply, my fingers shaking. "Who is this?" I typed, hitting send.

The response was instant. Not a text this time. A picture message.

I opened it. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.

It was a photo of me. Taken from above. I was looking down at the phone in my hands, my face a mask of shock and confusion. The angle was high, looking down from the ceiling.

I slowly raised my eyes to the ceiling. There, directly above me, was a metal ventilation grate. It was dark, impossible to see inside. But I knew. Someone was up there. Someone was watching me right now.

A scream tore from my throat. I threw the phone as hard as I could. It hit the floor and shattered into pieces. I didn't look back. I ran.

I sprinted down the aisle, my footsteps echoing like gunshots in the quiet room. I burst through the heavy wooden doors and didn't stop until I was outside, in the bright afternoon sun. Students milled around, laughing and talking, completely unaware of the panic consuming me.

I ran all the way back to the dorm. I fumbled with the key, my hands shaking so badly I dropped it twice. Finally, I shoved the door open, threw myself inside, and locked it behind me.

I slid down the door, my back against the wood, and pulled my knees to my chest. I was gasping for air, my lungs burning. The room was empty. Hannah was in class. But the silence didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a threat.

I looked around the room, my eyes darting from the closet to the space under the beds. Was there a camera in here too? Was I ever truly alone?

I had thought the main plot was the danger. I had thought Dean Gibbs was the monster I had to avoid. I was wrong. There was something else out there. Something hiding in the shadows. And it was hunting me.

I didn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that photo. Me, looking down, completely unaware of the predator above. I checked the locks on the door three times. I pushed a chair under the handle. I even taped a piece of paper over the small peephole.

When the sun finally came up, I tried to convince myself it was over. I had destroyed the phone. I had left the library. The stalker had lost his toy.

I dragged myself to my morning lecture. I sat in the very back row, my hood up, my head down. I tried to focus on the professor's monotone voice, but my mind was racing.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I nearly jumped out of my seat. I pulled it out slowly, my heart in my throat.

It was a text from an unknown number. Not the burner. My personal phone.

"You look tired today, Little Lamb. Didn't sleep well?"

The room tilted. I gripped the edge of my desk to steady myself. He had my real number. He was watching me right now.

I looked around the lecture hall, my eyes scanning the sea of faces. No one was looking at me. Everyone was focused on their laptops or their phones. He could be any of them.

With shaking fingers, I blocked the number. It was a useless gesture, but it made me feel like I was doing something. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the lecture.

Two minutes later, my phone buzzed again. A new unknown number. This time, it was a picture.

It was me, sitting in the back of the lecture hall. The photo was taken from outside the building, through the window. My hood was up, my face partially hidden, but it was definitely me.

The caption read: "Blocking me is pointless."

I couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in. I grabbed my backpack and ran out of the hall, ignoring the professor's annoyed glance.

I went straight to the campus police station. I sat in the sterile waiting room for an hour before an officer finally called me into his office. I told him everything. The burner phone, the texts, the photos. I showed him the messages on my phone.

He listened politely, but his expression was dismissive. "Miss Carrillo, college pranks are common. Without a specific threat of violence, there's not much we can do. The numbers are spoofed. We can't trace them."

"But he's following me!" I cried, my voice cracking. "He took a picture of me through a window!"

"Keep your doors locked," the officer said, handing me a pamphlet on campus safety. "If he makes physical contact or threatens you, come back."

I walked out of the station feeling utterly defeated. The police couldn't help me. I was on my own. I didn't even know who my true enemy was. The creep calling me 'Little Lamb'? Or Dean Gibbs, who used the fake name 'Crane' in fancy restaurants and watched me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve? In this world, it felt like everyone had a secret, and I was trapped in the middle of all of them.

Over the next few days, the harassment escalated. The texts were constant. He knew what I ate for breakfast. He knew what I was wearing. He knew when I left the dorm and when I came back. I changed my number twice. Each time, he found the new one within minutes.

I was living in a fishbowl. Every move I made was monitored. I stopped going to the dining hall. I stopped going to class. I stayed in the dorm, jumping at every shadow.

Hannah noticed. She tried to talk to me, but I shut her out. I couldn't tell her. If I told her, she would tell Dean, and I couldn't deal with him right now. I couldn't deal with his probing questions and his controlling solutions.

But the silence only made things worse. Hannah grew distant, hurt by my rejection. And the stalker grew bolder.

One night, I decided to take a shower. It was late, and the bathroom was empty. I stood under the hot water, trying to wash away the constant feeling of being dirty, of being watched. I let the steam fill the small stall, finally feeling a tiny sliver of relief.

When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I walked back to my room. Hannah was asleep. The room was dark. But my phone screen was glowing on my desk.

I walked over to it, my stomach dropping. A new message.

"The water looks warm. Enjoy your shower."

The towel slipped from my fingers. The floor seemed to vanish beneath my feet. He was watching me in the bathroom. He could see me naked. He was in my most private moments.

A scream ripped from my throat. I grabbed the phone and hurled it at the wall. The screen shattered, the plastic casing cracking. The pieces fell to the floor, but the damage was done.

"Chloe!" Hannah shot up in bed, turning on the lamp. She saw me standing there, dripping wet, shaking, and crying. She saw the broken phone on the floor.

"Chloe, what happened?" she asked, jumping out of bed and rushing over to me.

I collapsed into her arms, the sobs finally breaking free. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I was terrified. I was exhausted. I was completely broken.

"Someone is watching me," I cried into her shoulder. "He's everywhere. He sees everything. I can't escape him."

Hannah held me tight, her arms strong and warm. "Who? Who is watching you?"

"I don't know," I sobbed. "He calls himself... he calls me Little Lamb."

Hannah pulled back, her face hard with anger. "Tell me everything."

And I did. I told her about the library, the texts, the photos, the police. I told her how I had been living in fear for a week, alone and isolated. After saying that, I felt empty inside.

Hannah's eyes were blazing. She grabbed her own phone off the nightstand. "That's it. I'm calling my brother."

"No!" I lunged across the bed, grabbing Hannah's arm before she could dial. "Hannah, please! Don't call him!"

She stared at me, her expression a mix of confusion and frustration. "Why not? Chloe, this is serious. This guy is a psycho. Dean can help. He has connections, he can hire people-"

"I can't deal with Dean right now," I pleaded, my voice raw from crying. "He... he suffocates me. He asks too many questions. He looks at me like I'm a specimen. I can't handle him on top of this."

Hannah's brow furrowed. "Dean is intense, but he cares. He would never let someone hurt you."

"You don't understand," I whispered, pulling my knees up to my chest. "Being around him feels like being trapped. Just like this stalker. I feel like I have no control. I can't trade one cage for another."

Hannah sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand still holding her phone. She looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

"Okay," she said slowly. "I get it. You don't want Dean. But, Chloe, you can't fight this alone. The police can't help. Changing your number doesn't work. This guy is a hacker, or something. You need a professional."

I buried my face in my hands. I knew she was right. I was out of my depth. This wasn't a physical threat I could run from. It was digital. It was invisible. And it was everywhere.

"What other choice do I have?" I asked, my voice muffled.

"Let Dean find someone," Hannah urged. "He knows cybersecurity experts. He knows private investigators. He doesn't have to be the one dealing with it directly. He can just pull the strings."

The idea made my skin crawl, but the terror of the shower text was still fresh in my mind. I couldn't live like this. I couldn't function knowing that every move I made was being recorded and analyzed.

"Just this once," Hannah said, her tone softening. "Let him help. And I'll make sure he keeps his distance. I'll be the middleman. You won't even have to talk to him."

I looked up at her. Her eyes were sincere, desperate to help me. She was a good friend. The best. And I was shutting her out because of my own paranoia.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I could use Dean's resources without getting entangled in his web. A transaction. A business deal. I give him the problem, he fixes it, and I walk away.

"Okay," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Okay. But just the resources. I don't want him in my room. I don't want him questioning me. Just... find the guy."

Hannah let out a breath she had been holding. "Thank you. I promise, I'll handle it."

She picked up her phone again, her thumbs flying over the screen. She drafted a text to Dean and held it out for me to see.

"Hey. Chloe is being cyberstalked by a serious creep. Cops are useless. Can we get a pro on this ASAP?"

The words stared back at me. It was a cry for help. It was an invitation. It was a door opening that I wasn't sure I could ever close.

"Is that okay?" Hannah asked.

I stared at the screen. Dean's face flashed in my mind,The cold blue eyes, The commanding voice.

But then, another image flashed. The photo of me in the library,The text about the shower,The constant, suffocating fear.

I had to choose. The devil I knew, or the devil I didn't.

I closed my eyes. "Send it."