Ava's POV
The studio was quiet.
Too quiet, maybe.
But Ava had always liked that—being alone with paint and silence.
She dipped her brush into crimson, watching the color bloom like blood on the canvas. Her wrist ached, fingers stained red and blue. The overhead light buzzed softly above, the only sound in the entire room besides the rasp of bristles against canvas and the occasional whisper of wind against the window.
The world outside didn't exist when she painted.
Only the color. The motion. The ache.
Still...
Something felt off tonight.
Ava paused, brush hovering mid-air. She blinked and glanced at the window.
Her heart gave a tiny, illogical stutter.
The blinds were open. She meant to close them. She always meant to. But she liked the way the moonlight spilled in over her workspace. And no one ever looked in, anyway. The studio was on the third floor. No one cared what happened here this late.
Right?
She tried to shake it off. Told herself she was being dramatic. Overworked. Sleep-deprived.
But the feeling crawled across her skin like shadowed fingertips.
The sensation of eyes.
She turned back to the canvas and added another stroke, slower this time. Her gaze flicked to the window again.
Empty street. Still night. Nothing.
Her phone buzzed on the table behind her. She jumped.
Unknown Number. No message. Just the buzz.
Weird.
She ignored it and kept painting.
Maybe she was paranoid.
Maybe she'd read too many psychological thrillers. Or maybe her insomnia was finally catching up.
But still—
She started leaving the blinds closed after that night.
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