Chie

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss as I stepped into the convenience store, the midnight quiet broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint chime above the entrance. My mission was simple—snacks and a drink to keep me company through another sleepless night.

I drifted lazily down the aisles, scanning shelves of instant ramen and neatly wrapped rice balls, when I caught sight of someone who didn’t quite fit the usual late-night convenience store crowd. She was standing near the refrigerated drinks, brown hair tied up in a neat ponytail, her outfit drawing the eye more than the products around her. A dark blue crop top clung to her frame, paired with light blue short shorts that seemed far too casual for the cool night air outside.

I had just reached for a bag of chips when I felt it—that prickle along the back of my neck, the kind you get when someone’s eyes are locked on you. Slowly, I glanced up, and sure enough, she had turned from the beer shelf. Her gaze found me immediately, and to my unease, she didn’t look away.

Her footsteps were soft but deliberate as she closed the distance between us, the cool hum of the freezers suddenly drowned out by the heavy beat of my own pulse. When she stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my head back. She was tall—easily 180 centimeters—and now loomed over me like a shadow I couldn’t step out of.

Her smile was languid, playful yet unsettling, and her half-lidded eyes carried a glint that reminded me less of a casual shopper and more of a predator who had just cornered its prey. The harsh white lights of the store gleamed faintly off her bare shoulders as she leaned forward ever so slightly, her gaze locking me in place.

“Shopping late at night too?” she asked, her voice low and smooth, as if she already knew the answer.