Chapter 1
I have just sunk into the steaming water of the tub when a low buzz vibrates through the air.
My head snaps toward the window.
A drone is hovering brazenly just outside my bathroom window, its little red light blinking in the twilight.
A hot surge of fury and humiliation shoots through me.
My first instinct is to leap up and yank the curtains closed, but a chilling thought stops me cold: what if it is recording?
I shrink into the farthest corner of the tub, my heart hammering against my ribs. I snatch up the long-handled scrubber leaning against the wall and, with a frantic swipe, hook the edge of the curtain and drag it shut.
I scramble out of the water, throw on a robe, and storm over to the window.
That thing is still there.
I rip the curtain open again, shove my phone against the glass, and hit record.
Only then, as if it had been caught red-handed, does the drone seem to get spooked. It zips away sideways and vanishes into the night.
My hands are shaking, but I grip my phone, my thumb flying as I drop the video straight into our building's resident group chat.
[Whose damn drone is this? Hovering outside my bathroom window in the middle of the night. Seriously, have you no shame?]
My message landed like a bomb.
[Wait, is that the same one that was outside my window a few days ago?]
[OMG, that's it! I was just about to get undressed when I saw it. I freaked out and threw my clothes right back on!]
[This has to be harassment, right? God, who knows if it filmed us!]
I immediately tag the property management account, typing: [Shouldn't you guys be looking into this? It's harassing multiple residents now!]
The building manager replies almost instantly: [Rest assured. We are launching a full investigation.]
I let out a deep breath, thinking that will be the end of it.
But I never could have imagined what would happen next. I should have known it wouldn't be that simple. Because after that night, the drone doesn't just come back. It comes back for me.
*****
The property management's investigation came up completely empty.
There were too many blind spots in the security cameras, they said, so they couldn't find the person flying the drone.
Judging by the total silence in the residents' group chat, none of my neighbors had seen it again.
It was my own personal stalker.
I lived on the 16th floor. The great view came with a price: zero privacy.
On the first day, it just hovered outside my living room window, its camera lens aimed at me like a rifle scope.
I yanked the curtains shut.
The next night, it was outside my bedroom, and the low hum of its propellers cut through the midnight silence.
I pulled the heavy blackout curtains, plunging my room into absolute darkness.
On the third day, I was in the kitchen making dinner when I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I glanced over my shoulder, and there it was.
Just beyond the glass, that cold electronic eye was locked right on me.
I felt like an animal in a glass enclosure, stared at by an invisible owner. A shiver ran down my spine.
I called the police.
The cops showed up, took my statement with a bored expression, and then gave me the classic brush-off. "Listen, ma'am, without any actual property damage or clear footage of an invasion of privacy, our hands were tied. We recommended you take extra security precautions."
Extra precautions? The feeling of utter powerlessness was suffocating.
I pulled every curtain in my apartment shut, living in a self-imposed twilight 24/7.
I felt like I was going to start growing mold.
That night, I was trying to lose myself in a movie, with the volume cranked up high.
Suddenly, a harsh, grating buzz sliced through the movie's soundtrack.
It was the drone. It was practically pressed against my windowpane.
I bolted off the couch and ripped the curtains open.
It had been modified. A tiny, powerful spotlight was mounted to its undercarriage, and a beam of stark white light stabbed through the darkness, hitting me right in the eyes.
I staggered back, eyes stinging, tears streaming down my face.
It was taunting me.
Rage, hot and blinding, washed over me. I snatched an apple from the fruit bowl on the table, slid open the window, and hurled it with everything I had.
The drone zipped to the side, dodging the apple with an almost mocking agility.
It wobbled in the air for a second, a little victory dance, before speeding away.
I watched it disappear toward the floors above me, heading upward.
I lived on the 16th floor. There were still more than a dozen stories above.
I shut the window and sat in the dark, the only sound the frantic drumming of my own heart.
This wasn't over.
The next day, I took a half-day off work and headed to an electronics market downtown.
"Hey," I said to the guy behind the counter. "You got any laser pointers? Something that packs a real punch."
He glanced around before pulling a long, unmarked box from under the counter. "This one could hit a target three miles away. The beam was visible at night. But seriously," he warned, "do not point this at anyone's eyes. It would cause permanent blindness."
"Perfect," I said. "I'll take it."
That night, I didn't turn on a single light. I sat on the couch in the heavy darkness, waiting.
The curtains were open just a crack.
Sure enough, at 9 p.m. sharp, the familiar buzz returned.
It hovered in the distance at first, casing the joint, before slowly drifting closer to my window.
The spotlight clicked on.
I raised the laser pointer, aimed it through the gap in the curtains, and locked onto the glowing camera lens.
I pressed the button.
A brilliant green beam shot across the dark and hit the drone dead-on.
It jerked violently in the air, as if it had been shocked, and the camera light instantly blinked out.
It flailed around for a few seconds, disoriented, then scurried away into the night.
Watching it retreat in a panic, I felt a wave of pure satisfaction wash over me.
That night, I slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
The next morning, I woke up feeling refreshed and ready for work.
I opened my front door, and a putrid stench hit me like a physical blow.
My door was smeared with a thick, dark-red liquid, still sticky and dripping onto the floor.
It smelled like rotting blood.
And the keyhole had been filled with super glue.
The key wouldn't even go in. I couldn't lock my own door.
I stood there, my stomach churning.