Riya didn't move. She sat in a cold silence that had nothing to do with the temperature of the studio.
I'm not sitting where you think I am.
The words echoed in her head, louder than the scratching of lead on paper from the desks around her. If he wasn't sitting where she thought, then she had been looking in the wrong direction the entire time. It was a total misdirection. She had wasted her energy on a single row of seats, while the true threat was lurking somewhere she hadn't even considered.
Very slowly, she turned around. Grey hoodie: still there. Front-row boy: still shaken. Every seat was accounted for. Nothing had changed. And yet, the air felt thinner. The trap hadn't caught him; it had only shown her how much of the room she wasn't seeing. She felt small, exposed, like a model left out on a table for critique.
She forced herself to move. She didn't head for her seat; she walked straight toward the front row. Her target was Leo. He was still staring at his phone, his face drained of color, his fingers hovering over the screen as if it were a bomb. He looked like he was vibrating on a frequency of pure fear.
"Leo," Riya whispered as she reached his desk. Her voice was low, meant only for him. "Did you get it too?"
Leo looked up, his expression shifting from confusion to a deep, visible unease. He looked at his phone, then at her, then back at his phone. His breath hitched in a jagged, panicked rhythm. He looked like he was about to break. Suddenly, he grabbed his bag and shoved his laptop inside without even shutting it. The plastic creaked under his grip.
He bolted. The heavy studio door slammed behind him, the sound echoing off the concrete like a gunshot. The entire room flinched. Riya stood there, the only person standing in a sea of sitting students, feeling like a target.
Riya remained frozen at his empty desk. Her phone buzzed in her palm.
Unknown Number: You scared him.
Unknown Number: Poor Leo. He just wanted to finish his site analysis.
Riya's grip on her phone was so tight her knuckles turned white. He knew his name. He knew exactly what project Leo was working on. This wasn't just a random stalker; this was someone who knew the architecture curriculum. Her ego, already bruised by the clumsy search, felt the sting of a fresh taunt. She wasn't the hunter; she was a distraction. She was the one causing the scene while he watched from the shadows.
"Riya."
The voice was sharp. Professor Miller stood a few feet away, his charcoal pencil hovering over a sketch as he watched her with a stern, puzzled frown. "Is there a reason one of my top students just sprinted out of here? This studio is for precision, not drama. Sit down."
She turned away, but she didn't go back to her middle-row seat. Instead, she headed for the boy in the grey hoodie in the second row, the one closest to where her keys had dropped. If the Watcher was playing a game of misdirection, the most obvious suspect was her safest bet. She needed an answer, even if it was the wrong one.
She stopped at his desk. "My keys," Riya said, her voice low and edged. "How did they get there?"
The boy didn't look up from his drafting paper. He kept drawing, his line steady and perfect. "They fell, Riya. I heard them hit the floor. I thought you'd notice."
"You didn't see who dropped them?"
He finally looked up. His eyes were flat, bored. "You did. When you walked in. You were distracted."
Her phone hissed in her palm.
Unknown Number: He's lying. But not for me.
Unknown Number: He just doesn't like you.
Riya felt a flush of heat creep up her neck. The Watcher was narrating her social failures, pointing out that even the people she could see didn't care enough to help her. She was alone in a room full of people who either ignored her or actively disliked her.
She retreated to her desk, the weight of the room's curiosity pressing against her back. She sat down slowly. She needed to look like she was working. She opened her sketchbook and picked up her pencil. She stared at the same half-drawn lines without seeing them. Her phone gave a short buzz against her leg.
Unknown Number: That was bold.
She ignored it. She forced her hand to draw a line, but it was shaky. Another vibration.
Unknown Number: You walked up like you were about to expose a criminal mastermind.
Her lips pressed together. She was tired of being the punchline. She typed before she could stop herself: "You think this is funny?"
A pause followed, long enough to feel intentional.
Unknown Number: I think you're interesting.
That made her stop. The word "interesting" felt like a trap. Another vibration.
Unknown Number: You didn't hesitate.
Her pulse shifted slightly. She wasn't just a victim anymore; she was a participant. "You made him panic," she typed.
Unknown Number: No.
Unknown Number: You did that part on your own.
Her pencil pressed harder against the paper. She didn't want the credit for Leo's breakdown. "Stop involving other people," she typed.
Unknown Number: You involved him. I just watched.
That calm tone again. Detached. Amused. She locked her phone and placed it face down on the desk. No more. No reaction. She had to prove she could ignore him.
She drew a straight line. Another. She focused on the scratch of graphite, trying to block out the rest of the world. Ten seconds. Fifteen. The silence was louder than the noise. Her phone vibrated.
Unknown Number: That didn't last long. You're pretending not to care.
Her fingers tightened around the pencil. Buzz.
Unknown Number: But you're thinking about where I am.
She grabbed the phone. She couldn't help it. " You're very confident for someone hiding," she typed.
Unknown Number: I'm not hiding.
Unknown Number: I'm just not where you expect.
Her heartbeat kicked once, hard. She didn't turn. Didn't scan the room again. She was done looking at seats.
Riya: Then where should I look?
The pause stretched longer than before. The tension in her chest was tight. Then:
Unknown Number: Not at seats. You keep searching for a person.
Another vibration. Her breath slowed. He wasn't enjoying chaos; he was evaluating her. Testing her. He was treating her like an architectural puzzle.
She typed again: "Then what should I be looking at?"
This time, the reply took longer. Long enough for doubt to creep in. Long enough for her to realize she was falling into his rhythm.
Unknown Number: Try searching for a pattern.
Her breath stilled. That wasn't flirting. That wasn't mocking. That was a hint. It was a professional challenge. Her heart began to race again, but not from humiliation, from engagement. She was a student of design. Patterns were what she did best.
She didn't know if "pattern" meant timing, or angles, or reactions. She began to look at the studio differently. The placement of the desks. The timing of the lights. The way people moved. Her phone vibrated once more.
Unknown Number: You're closer when you stop performing.
She swallowed. Closer to what? Closer to him? Closer to the answer? She didn't look around. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her search. Because suddenly she understood something.
He wasn't entertained by her panic. He was entertained by her thinking. He wanted her to solve him.
And that was far more dangerous.