Wandering Eyes

The city of Myrrin never slept—not in the way you’d hope. It twitched under neon lights, sighed in alleyways, and whispered behind cracked windows. In the heart of its sleepless core, Elena Vale moved like a ghost, unassuming, camera slung across her chest and a notebook full of names in her back pocket.

She was a photojournalist—one of the few who still preferred streetlight shadows over glossy studio backdrops. But tonight, she wasn’t chasing a story. Not exactly. She was chasing a pair of eyes.

It started a week ago.

She’d been following leads on a local corruption scandal involving a real estate magnate, Viko Dray. Typical slime: bribery, evictions, and luxury towers masking human despair. Elena had captured him entering a private club on 7th and Lyre, but what snagged her attention wasn’t the tycoon—it was the man standing just behind him.

Tall. Grey coat. A scarf knotted too tightly. But it wasn’t the fashion—it was the eyes.

He had looked directly at her camera. Not at her, at the *lens*, as though he could see through it—through *her*. And then, with a half-smile, he disappeared into the crowd.

Since then, she saw him everywhere.

Not clearly. Just glimpses. A reflection in a rain-soaked window. A silhouette beneath a flickering streetlamp. At first, Elena thought she was imagining it. Then the photos started changing.

She’d developed a roll of film from the night Dray met the foreign investors. Every shot had that man in the background. Always looking straight at the camera. Always just out of focus. She hadn’t noticed him while shooting—but there he was. Again and again.

She’d started calling him *The Wanderer*. A joke at first. Then an obsession.

Tonight, she stood at a crosswalk near Fenwick Square, fingers trembling as she lifted her camera. Traffic lights bled red across the wet asphalt. She snapped a photo of a saxophone player under a billboard, then of a couple kissing beneath a rusted fire escape.

And then—there. Across the street.

The Wanderer. Watching her.

Elena didn’t hesitate. She sprinted through the crossing, dodging a honking taxi, shouts trailing her. But he was moving too. Always two steps ahead, always turning a corner just before she reached it.

She followed him into an alley, breath hot in the cold air, and for the first time, he stopped.

“You’re persistent,” he said. His voice was quieter than she expected. Calm. British, maybe.

“Who are you?” she asked, raising her camera instinctively. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in.

“You take beautiful pictures,” he replied, glancing at the lens. “But not just with your eyes.”

Elena blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Your eyes wander because your soul does too,” he said, as if quoting something. “You don’t just look—you *see*. That’s rare.”

She should’ve felt flattered. Instead, she felt cold.

“You’ve been following me.”

He smiled again. This time, it reached his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I’ve been *waiting* for you.”

Before she could respond, a noise echoed from deeper in the alley—metal shifting, then a dull thud. Elena turned, nerves snapping. When she looked back, the man was gone.

But something lay on the ground where he’d stood: a small envelope, sealed in red wax.

Inside: a photograph.

Black and white. Grainy. But unmistakably her—Elena—standing outside the Myrrin Public Archives, from two nights ago. But she hadn’t been there.

Or so she thought.

Shaken, she went home and locked every bolt on her apartment door. She stayed up until sunrise examining the photo. The timestamp, the lighting—it was accurate. She was there, wearing the coat she’d worn that night. But she had no memory of it.

And in the corner of the photo, there was The Wanderer. Watching her.

Days passed. She dug into old news archives, city surveillance footage, anything to place the man. Nothing. No matches. No records. It was like he didn’t exist. Until she found an article from *1979*—a blurry photo of a protest in front of city hall. A man standing in the back. Same scarf. Same eyes.

It didn’t make sense.

Unless he *wasn’t just a man*.

That night, Elena stood in her darkroom, developing a new roll of film. Her hands moved on instinct. She was tired. Frustrated. And then, as the image formed in the chemical bath, her breath caught.

It was a photo she’d taken in Fenwick Square—just before the chase. But in this one, The Wanderer wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at something behind her.

A shadow. Not human. Long-limbed, hunched, its fingers like spider legs.

She spun around, camera raised, but the room was empty.

Only the faint scent of smoke lingered in the air.

A week later, Elena disappeared.

The camera was found on her desk. Still loaded.

But the last picture, half-developed, showed her—eyes wide in fear, mouth open in a scream—and behind her, once again…

Those same wandering eyes.