I dropped the file like it burned me. My photo was dated three days ago—taken from across the street outside my apartment. I hadn’t seen anyone. Hadn’t noticed a thing.

I called the police. They took everything and told me someone would follow up. But days passed. No updates. No case number. No visit.

Then I got a voicemail. No caller ID. Just a man’s voice saying:
“Don’t go back to that unit. You were never meant to see what’s in there.”

I moved the next day. Changed numbers. Switched jobs. But the feeling didn’t leave.

A month later, I saw a man in a coffee shop—same build as the guy from the photo file I saw earlier. Same hoodie. He was watching the barista, writing something in a small notebook.

I didn’t approach him. I just left.

But when I got home that night, there was a folder on my doorstep.

Inside was a new photo.

Me. Taken that morning.

The lesson?
Sometimes when you dig too deep, you find out you were already being watched. And the scariest part isn’t what you uncover—
…it’s realizing you were already on the list.