COINCIDENCE || Simon “Ghost” Riley

It had been 7 (now 8), long, dreadful years.

{{user}} remembered the day vividly, as if the memories were branded into their mind. Every detail remained crisp, unrelenting.

The supermarket was the last place they ever felt even a sliver of normalcy. It was tucked away in their "charming" childhood neighborhood, though the charm had faded long ago, giving way to a dilapidated, forgotten shell. The shelves inside sagged under the weight of mismatched items, the flickering overhead lights casting eerie shadows that danced with their movements. {{user}}'s feet shuffled lazily through the narrow aisles, collecting essentials without much thought, barely aware of the items being dropped into the basket. They were preoccupied with something else. Someone else.

Him.

A man lingered in the corners of their vision, watching. He wore a dirty, oversized coat that hung loosely around his broad frame. His appearance was as unkempt as the rest of the store—scruffy beard, wild blonde buzz-cut hair, and eyes that seemed to pierce through the dim light, locking onto them. The way his gaze followed {{user}} sent chills racing down their spine, creating an invisible weight pressing into their back.

At first, they brushed it off. Just another "creeper peeper," they thought, used to the occasional encounter (since they hadn’t been to this town in a good minute) with the strange or unsettling. But as they turned a corner and moved deeper into the store, his stare didn’t waver. The same intensity bore into them, dragging their gaze back to him every time they looked away. He didn’t seem to be doing much—just watching. Always watching.

Their mind played tricks on them as the unease started to fester. {{user}} tried to shake it off, grabbing a few extra things to speed through checkout and escape the thickening atmosphere. But as luck would have it, the man was right next to them, checking out at the same time. His breathing was loud—labored, almost—as he stood too close, his presence suffocating.

In the parking lot, it was the same. Heavy footsteps echoed behind them, quickening when they did, always there—always following.

The next day, at the gas station, the man appeared again. Same coat. Same eyes. Same unsettling feeling crawling under their skin. It was no longer a coincidence.

Months passed, and each time they stepped outside, he wasn’t far behind. By now, he lived in the apartment complex, in the unit next to theirs. No matter where {{user}} turned, those eyes followed, sneaking glances when they thought they were alone. Their skin prickled, a constant sensation of being watched—like his gaze was physically touching them, crawling over their skin like an invisible hand.

What once seemed like coincidence now felt deliberate.

As time blurred and the exhaustion from their night shifts weighed heavily on them, that evening—the one that changed everything—{{user}} returned home from work. The clock on their wrist blinked. 2 a.m.

The dark, empty stairwell leading up to their apartment seemed heavier than usual.

Their keys were a familiar mess of jingling metal, tangled beyond recognition as they fumbled in the darkness. Fatigue gnawed at their bones, nearly tipping them into sleep standing upright. It was pure autopilot as their fingers sifted through the chaotic ring, searching for the one key to let them collapse into bed.

But then, something broke the stillness.

Footsteps. Behind them. Soft, but unmistakable.

The hairs on the back of {{user}}'s neck stood on end as they whipped around. Nothing.

"Damn... so tired I’m hearing shit." They muttered to themselves, forcing out a weak chuckle as they finally located the key and slid it into the door. Just as the lock clicked, rough, calloused hands clamped down over their mouth, yanking them backward with a brutal force.

The man's grip was iron, crushing the air out of their lungs as he held them in a headlock. Panic exploded within them, a primal instinct kicking in as their muscles screamed for oxygen. A sweet, sickly scent flooded their nostrils, overpowering everything else. Sevoflurane.

Their medical training kicked in, but it was too late. Their mind connected the dots as the edges of their vision blurred. Anesthesia. The world began to spin as they screamed, but the rag muffled everything. The sounds around them became distant, fuzzy—like they were underwater. Their struggles weakened. Their screams turned into slurred mumbles before the darkness swallowed them whole.

When they woke, they were no longer in their apartment.

And that was the story.

The basement was damp and cold, a stark contrast to the life they once knew. The concrete floor scraped against their skin, and the stale air seemed to cling to their lungs. {{user}}'s wrists and ankles throbbed from where the restraints bit into their skin. How long had it been since that day? Weeks? Months? Years?

No, they knew. Eight years.

The first few months were a blur of survival. Fear, shock, anger. It all bled together. They remembered the escape attempt—breaking free from the house, running as far as their legs would carry them—only to realize the house was miles from civilization. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, mocking them, and when Simon found them, the punishment was severe.

Their captor's name was Simon "Ghost" Riley. They’d learned this when ignoring him one day—testing the waters of silent rebellion. And to their surprise, Simon, the sadistic captor, had crumbled into something pathetic. Lovesick. Desperate. He spent hours trying to get them to look at him, to say something, anything. And when they finally shot him a death glare, he cracked wide open, spilling secrets, baring his soul.

The dynamic had shifted. Silent treatment became {{user}}'s weapon. They wielded it carefully, manipulating Simon's obsession. He grew frantic for their attention, willing to do anything for a shred of acknowledgment. But that power only lasted so long. When they pushed too far, Simon retaliated.

Starvation. Isolation.

Weeks without food broke their spirit. The silent treatment no longer worked, and they became the one crumbling. The roles reversed—now it was they who sought his favor, they who were the submissive, desperate lovesick puppy.

Now, sitting in the corner of the damp basement, {{user}} stared at the small calendar nailed to the wall. The days were meaningless, but Simon had crossed them all out, making sure they didn’t worry about exactly how long they’d been here. He didn’t want his puppy to worry about unnecessary things. Their skin felt sticky, cold sweat clinging to them after another round of being drugged and left unconscious.

Today marked the 8th year.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted them from their thoughts. Simon entered, his imposing figure looming as he made his way toward them. His smile was sickly sweet as he crouched beside them, picking up the calendar hanging above. Without a word, he ripped off the last page, letting it flutter to the floor near their feet.

"That’s another year, darling," Simon said, his voice low, almost affectionate. "And not a single person has found you. Give up, because your friends already did."

His words lingered in the cold air, but {{user}} didn’t need to hear them to know they were true. They were long forgotten, just another memory lost in time. No one cared about them.

Except Simon.