The Feeling of Being Observed
Max slumped over the workbench, bloodshot eyes fixed on the glow of the computer screen for hours. The whir of his machines was all that broke the silence as half-finished gadgets, tools, and notebooks littered the floor around him. His father's journal was open before him, the cryptic messages slowly revealing themselves, but it was as if no matter how intently he read, the puzzle just remained just out of reach.
His small, cluttered apartment, lit by only one desk lamp, was hardly the best place for revolutionary scientific breakthroughs, but it had been his sanctuary since his father died. The walls were lined with incomplete works in progress, gadgets he'd tried out in his efforts to demonstrate that he, too, could come up with something useful—something on a par with the legacy left behind by Dr. Alexander Cole.
Max had always been a bright young man, but lately, a gnawing feeling of doubt had taken root inside him. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for this," he thought, rubbing his eyes. He ran a hand through his messy hair and stared at the holographic image of the meteorite his father had studied. The thing that had changed their lives forever.
Just as he was thinking, something registered in his ear—an odd noise outside his window. Max's gaze was fixed on the area. The noise was soft, almost imperceptible. Leaves rustling or a car slowing down? He pressed against the window, his breath caught in his throat as he peered out.
Nothing.
"You're paranoid," he muttered to himself, but the feeling did not cease. He reclined in his chair, trying to focus on what he was doing, but his mind continued to drift.
His gaze wandered again to the window. There it was—a silhouette of someone walking in the distance. A car, still motionless for far too long before his home. The headlamps weren't lit, yet the vehicle stood there. It had stood for hours, and now a person supposedly sat staring at him. The hairs down the back of his neck went taut.
"I'm being ridiculous," he whispered under his breath, trying to rationalize. "It's probably just someone lost. or maybe they're just waiting for a parking spot."
But the uneasiness lingered inside him, gnawing deep in his breast. Max tried to brush it aside and settled back at his desk once again, but his eyes again gravitated to the window. He was captivated once again by the vehicle standing there. It was again a lot tougher to disregard this time.
Max's fingers trembled slightly as he grasped his phone and stroked his fingers across the camera app like reading something, when he was only trying to get closer with the window pane as a sight. The car did not move. Instead, it stood there nearly waiting, it felt like, for something – for him. Max received an ice-tracing down the center of his spine.
He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting tighter. "Am I paranoid, or am I really being watched?" The question echoed in his head, louder than ever. It wasn't the car alone—it was everything around him. The random noise of footsteps outside his door. The shadows at the edge of his vision that would disappear when he tried to focus on them.
He turned his attention back to the desk, but the sense of unease lingered about him like a damp fog. His thoughts ran riot. "This is not coincidence. Someone's stalking me. But why? What do they want?"
The room began to close in on him. Something had to be done. He grabbed his jacket, hanging over the chair back, and pulled it on, trying to shake off the paranoia. The fear gnawed at his gut. "There's no time for this. Just think. Think about the meteorite. Think about your work."
But as he got to his feet and strode across to the far side of the workshop, a noise made him freeze. The soft groan of a creaking floorboard. He was not alone.
His heart skipped a beat.
"Hello?" Max bellowed, his voice slightly too rough, betraying his anxiety.
No answer.
Max's heart was racing. He couldn't see anyone looking through the small gap between the door and the door frame, but something was amiss. He wasn't imagining things. Someone had been there—or had been trying to be there. The realization slapped him in the face.
The door handle shook.
Max's hand went instinctively into the drawer where he kept a small inventory of tools and gadgets for emergencies. His fingers came into contact with the chill of a hidden taser, but that was not enough. He needed to get out—fast.
"What is it?" he cursed under his breath, his mind whirling with what-ifs. "Who are these people? What do they require my father's work for?
Max ran to the window and peered out again, but the car was gone. The streets were empty. The shadow was gone. But the sense of menace lingered, thick and palpable.
The feeling of being watched was no longer paranoia. It was real. And Max could feel the weight of it pressing down upon him, knowing that the unseen force behind him had just begun to make its move.
"They know the meteorite. and they're coming for it," Max thought, fear coagulating in his gut.
The room was subdued now, though it was far from peaceful. It was choking. Max grabbed his jacket and left out the back door. He needed to get out of there and come up with a strategy for what to do next. The threat was closing in. And Max Cole was no longer a would-be scientist seeking to make a reputation for himself—he was now a fugitive, ensnared in the deadly spider web his father had spun years before.
And the chase still hadn't begun.
A Visit from an Unknown Source
Max hunched over his father's outdated journal, the only tangible connection he still had to the man who'd defined his world. The dim light of a dying desk lamp threw ghoulish shadows upon the cluttered workbench, where abandoned projects littered the ground beneath him like broken dreams. Every page he turned over haunted him as another puzzle piece, but there was one thing he could not place his finger on.
The tick-tock of the wall clock was seemingly echoing against the quietude, reminding him all the while that time kept slipping and still no answers for him.
"Come on, Max, think," he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. He'd been at this for hours, his mind whirling with theories and possibilities. But just as he was approaching, another question popped up, and he had to start over again.
The sudden knock on the door startled him, his heart racing in his chest. He paused for a moment, wondering if it was a figment of his imagination playing games with him. The knock was louder this time, commanding his attention.
Max stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. He had learned to be smarter than that and not open the door when he didn't know who was on the other side. Too much was lost, and he didn't trust people anymore—not after that encounter with the odd man that morning, and certainly not after what he had found out about his father's business.
He stopped, taking a step back towards the door. His heart was pounding. The hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.
Max breathed deep, peering through the peephole, and his stomach tightened. Stood there, on the opposite side of the peephole, was a man—a stranger, dark-haired and tall, and in a coat that swallowed him up into the blackness itself. His face wasn't visible but for a portion of it, and the cold glint of his eyes left a shiver running through Max's chest. There was something about the guy, something wrong that Max couldn't quite identify.
Max managed to pry the door open a mere inch or two, cautious, not sure what to expect.
"Who's there?" Max demanded, suspicion weighing in his voice.
The man's eyes never wavered from Max's face. He didn't blink, didn't even stir.
"I'm not here to introduce myself," the man replied, his voice low and emotionless. It was almost as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. He stepped slightly closer, and Max instinctively took a step back.
"The meteorite is not yours to guard," the man went on, his voice dark and measured. The words ran like ice through Max's veins, his heart thudding as if the world had become a colder place. The man's eyes were so intense, piercing, as if he was gazing through Max, into something more profound. "The energy it contains is greater than you can conceive."
Max's mind spun as his thoughts conflicted in a tumult. A thousand questions rushed over his lips. What did the man know regarding the meteorite? Why did he come? For whom did he work? But nothing escaped. The room seemed to have lost all the air.
Before Max could respond, the man took a step back. His eyes flickered, and there was a brief, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. "You'll understand soon enough."
Max opened his mouth to speak, to demand answers, but the man was already turning away. He didn't wait for Max to reply, didn't offer any more explanations.
Within the time it takes for a heart to beat, he vanished. Max remained there, paralyzed, staring at the empty corridor. The only sound in the room was the pounding of his own heart.
"Shit, what the hell just happened?" Max cursed under his breath, so low that he was barely audible. His mind was reeling, attempting to comprehend what he had just heard. He wasn't sure if he was more frightened or bewildered.
The door groaned shut behind him, and Max leaned back against it, the force of the stranger's words bearing down on him. He'd felt like he was starting to understand the scope of his father's work, but now it was all larger—and more sinister—than he'd ever have been able to believe.
His hands clenched into fists, the anger and frustration spilling over. "Who the heck does he think he is?" Max breathed. "Nobody's going to take this away from me. Nobody." The evening had turned colder, darker outside. Max stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity, having no clue what came next. What was this meteorite, anyway? What had his dad discovered that it was so dangerous, so historic?
But as he turned back to his workbench, something inside of him had shifted. The weight of the stranger's words lingered in the air, a silent warning that Max couldn't shake.
He was no longer merely an inventor. He was something more—something tied to a power greater than anything he could have imagined. And the knowledge both terrified and exhilarated him.
Max reached for his father's notebook, flipping the pages with renewed desperation. Secrets were hidden here—answers concealed behind codes and coded messages. The more he dug, the nearer he would be to the truth.
But Max knew one thing now beyond doubt: the game was altered. And he had no choice but to play.