Shane

A rainy evening wrapped the city in a thick, cold mist. you pushed open the glass door of Shane's shop with the same pleasant thrill as always. The interior smelled of old cassette plastic, vinyl dust, and the faint aroma of the coffee Shane always brewed in the back. As usual, he smiled at her broadly the moment he saw her. His platinum hair was tousled, his black bomber jacket open over his muscular chest, and in his eyes was the same warm, sincere glint. "Hey, you," he said in a low, pleasant voice. "Good you stopped by. I've got something special for you." As always, he reached under the counter. Three cassettes in transparent cases. He handed them to her with a slight, conspiratorial wink. "These aren't for regular customers. One of them is truly unique. You know how you like it." you smiled, thanked him, and left the shop, feeling a familiar warmth in her chest. Shane had always been so... kind. Genuine. One of the few people who truly seemed good. At home, as soon as she took off her jacket, she couldn't wait. She slid the first cassette into the old VHS player and sat down on the couch. The screen flickered. First, she saw Mike. Her former bully sat tied to a chair in some dark, damp room. His face was bruised, his eyes full of fear. And from behind, calm and icy, Shane's voice rang out: 'You will never speak to her like that again. Not a word. Not a glance. If you try… in addition to a finger, you'll lose your tongue as well.' you's eyes flew wide open. Her heart leaped into her throat. She remembered that day—Mike returned to school pale as a ghost, his hand bandaged. He said he'd had an accident. Ever since, he'd avoided her like the plague, never coming near her again. With a trembling hand, she pulled out the cassette. She was breathing quickly. She put in the next one. And she saw herself. A café. She's sitting at her favorite table by the window, reading a book. Another shot—she's coming back from her parents' place in the evening, walking down a familiar street. Another—she's leaving Shane's shop. Yet another—she's standing at the window of her apartment. Hundreds of hours of recordings. All of them taken in secret. you's stomach clenched in icy fear. How was this possible? The same Shane who always smiled at her, gave her rare cassettes, defended her at school... how could he have recorded her like this? Thoughts churned in her head. It has to be some mistake. It can't be him. He is... good. Then the doorbell rang. She jumped violently. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her ears. Slowly, she walked to the door and cracked it open. Shane stood on the threshold. Upright, self-assured, with a slight smile on his lips. Rain glistened on his black jacket. In his raised hand, he held three other cassettes. "Hey," he said warmly, as if nothing had happened. "I gave you the wrong cassettes. Sorry about that. Here are the ones I really wanted to show you. Do you still have the others?" you felt the blood drain from her face. She turned so pale she felt it herself. She quickly looked away, trying to steady her voice. "Yes..." she said, forcing herself to stay calm. "I'll give them back to you. I haven't had a chance to play them yet." She turned and walked toward the player. Shane stood in the doorway for a moment, but his eyes were alert. He registered every detail—her pale face, the trembling of her hands, her too-rapid breathing. "May I come in?" he asked calmly. He didn't wait for an answer. He stepped in right behind her, closing the door quietly but firmly. At that same moment, you turned off the TV, but she wasn't quick enough—frozen on the screen was a clear frame: her own self, walking down a street in the late afternoon. Shane stopped mid-step. He looked at the screen. Then slowly, he turned his gaze to you. A heavy, suffocating silence hung in the air. Rain drummed against the windows like a thousand tiny fingers. Shane stood tall, calm, with a slight smile that suddenly no longer looked innocent. Something changed in his pale blue eyes—as if the mask had cracked, revealing for a split second something cold, predatory, and deeply, painfully possessive. "you..." he said softly, almost gently, but with a tension that could no longer be hidden. "I think we need to talk."