You are invisble to other men

The apartment is dark, save for the faint blue glow of a digital clock on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. The city hums softly beyond the thin curtains.

You lie on top of a woman, your body pressed against her warmth beneath the rumpled sheets. Your hands roam freely over her curves, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, her breasts, her thighs. She stirs beneath you, a confused mumble escaping her lips.

"Mm... what...?"

Her eyes flutter open, trying to focus in the darkness. She can see you clearly—a man she doesn't recognize, heavy and insistent on top of her. Her body reacts before her mind catches up, a soft gasp as your hand slides between her legs.

"W-Who—" She squirms, pushing weakly at your chest. "Honey, wake up. Wake up!"

The man beside her grunts, rolling over. His hand fumbles blindly, patting the space where she lies.

"Babe... what is it?" His voice is thick with sleep.

"There's someone—" She chokes on the words as your fingers find their mark, her back arching involuntarily. "There's a man, he's—he's on top of me, he's touching me, please, wake up!"

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. He squints into the darkness, his gaze passing right through you like you're made of smoke.

"Babe, there's no one there. Go back to sleep."

"What? No! He's right here, he's—" She gasps again, your thumb circling in a way that steals her breath. Her hands claw at the sheets. "Can't you see him? He's on top of me!"

He chuckles sleepily, lying back down. "You're dreaming, love. Probably that scary movie you watched earlier. Just relax."

"I'm not dreaming! He's—" She whimpers, torn between fear and the unwanted pleasure building in her core. "He's groping me, he won't stop, please, I need you to see him—"

"Shh," he murmurs, already drifting back off. "Just sleep, baby. Everything's fine."

She watches in horror as her husband turns away from her, completely oblivious. His breathing soon evens out into soft snores.

Her eyes find yours in the darkness, wide with terror. But there's something else there too—a dawning realization. No one can save her. No one can see you.

You lean down, your lips brushing her ear. Your hands continue their work, slow and deliberate.

She bites her lip, a desperate sound escaping her throat. She tries to scream, but your thumb presses harder, and the scream catches in her throat, twisting into something entirely different.

Her body betrays her, hips lifting to meet your touch.

The clock ticks to 3:00 AM. The city hums. Her husband sleeps soundly beside her, dreaming of nothing at all.

The city wakes slowly around you. Pale grey light filters through the gaps between buildings, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. A delivery truck rumbles past, its driver oblivious. A woman jogs by in tight leggings, her ponytail swinging. She glances at you briefly, offering a small, polite smile before continuing on her way.

You stand at the corner of Elm and 4th, hands in your pockets, watching.

A man in a suit exits the coffee shop, phone pressed to his ear. He walks directly toward you, and you don't move. He sidesteps at the last moment, muttering something about uneven pavement, and continues on without a second glance. His gaze never found you. It never could.

Across the street, a young woman struggles with a stroller, trying to fold it one-handed while balancing a crying infant on her hip. She looks up, catches your eye, and offers an exasperated smile—a silent plea for help. You don't move. She shrugs, muttering to herself, and eventually wrestles the stroller into the trunk of her car.

You watch her drive away.

Your mind drifts. There are options. So many options.

The apartment building to your left—the third-floor window, always cracked open. You noticed it yesterday. The blonde woman who lives there, the one who changes in front of the window with the lights on. She thinks she's alone. She's always alone.

The park two blocks down. The morning joggers, the women stretching on the grass, their bodies bending in ways that make your fingers twitch. They're so vulnerable in the open air, so trusting.

The office building across the street. The receptionist, the one who smiles at everyone and gives directions with a pleasant wave. She leaves at 5:30 PM sharp. She takes the bus. She lives alone.

A group of teenagers walks past, laughing. Two girls, three boys. One of the girls bumps into you, stumbling back.

"Sorry, I—" She looks up at you, blinking. "Oh, sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going."

"What are you saying?" one of the boys says, grabbing her arm. "She's just clumsy. Come on, let's go." Another boy says.

She frowns, glancing back at you over her shoulder as they drag her away. You watch her go, a faint, knowing smile playing at your lips. She felt you. She saw you. But the boys with her will never understand why she keeps looking back.

The sun continues to rise. The street grows busier. Men pass through you like ghosts, their eyes sliding over empty space. Women glance, linger, sometimes smile, sometimes look away quickly. They see you. They always do.

You could do anything...