The morning in London was crisp, with a thin layer of mist still lingering on the rooftops. Inside the warm clinic, Mewnich welcomed them with a gentle smile and a firm handshake. Small in stature, with understanding eyes and a voice as soft as glass—she was the kind of person who could inspire trust without needing to say much.

“Film, did you wake up in the middle of the night yesterday?” she asked as the three of them settled into the consultation room, her assistant placing warm herbal tea cups on the table.

Film lowered her head, gathering her words. “Yes… sometimes I still dream. The dreams have been getting clearer—images, laughter… of him, very familiar.”

Mewnich nodded, writing slowly on the file, then looked back at Film: “Recurring dreams are a normal reaction when the brain is trying to process old trauma. But when feelings of unease—thinking someone is following you or always appearing around you—become frequent and uncontrollable… it seems he’s worsening your condition. We need early intervention.”

Namtan squeezed Film’s hand tighter, her voice trembling slightly. “I’ll be by your side. I’ll do everything to keep you safe.”

Mewnich didn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, she showed Film breathing techniques, guided her through cognitive-behavioral exercises to pull her mind away from intrusive images. She prescribed medication to stabilize sleep and reduce nightmares, carefully explaining possible side effects and how to monitor them.

“We’ll monitor closely,” Mewnich said, her eyes professional yet warm. “If anything unusual happens, call me immediately. Therapy is a process, but you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Film’s eyes glistened with tears as she softly thanked her. Namtan lowered her head, feeling relief in having a professional nearby, yet burdened by the long battle that still lay ahead.

Returning to the hotel, the two had just stepped into the lobby when the receptionist handed Film an envelope. No sender, no note. Curiosity piqued, Film opened it—and her face instantly drained of color as she read a few smudged, scrawled lines:

“Don’t think you can hide from me. If you don’t come back to me, prepare to lose everything.”

Film let the envelope fall. The words froze the moment. She bent down to pick it up, heart pounding. The sense of being watched, threatened, sent a chill down her spine.

Namtan was immediately by her side. She looked at the envelope, then into Film’s eyes. “Give it to me.” Her hand snatched the paper, gripping so tightly that her knuckles whitened. “You don’t have to face this alone. If he dares, I’ll confront him.”

Film felt a sting in her nose, wanted to say she didn’t want to trouble anyone, but her voice choked. Namtan held her close, passing on a measure of courage.

In the afternoon, they strolled the hotel’s rear grounds. The sky was gray, the cold breeze sharp enough. Hand in hand, they tried to act normal—but their eyes remained alert. At a small turn, a black car sped past, its window rolling down. A hand shot out, throwing a crushed bouquet before them; petals scattered like fresh wounds. A crumpled note fell alongside:
“I’m still watching. Don’t think you can escape.”

The bouquet lay on the gravel, the scent crushed, dramatic and chilling. Namtan felt a surge of emotion—anger, protectiveness, and suppressed rage.

She picked up the petals, eyes scanning for the speeding car—only empty space and fading sound remained. Namtan turned to Film, gaze icy. “Are you okay?” Her voice tried to be strong.

Film nodded, shoulders trembling. “I… I just want to go home, want this to end.”

Namtan hugged Film, her forehead resting against hers. “We won’t let him hurt you. I’ll call security, take legal action, do everything. You don’t have to endure this alone.”

Her words were a vow. Yet in her heart was a silent worry—that the person behind this wasn’t just trying to instill fear, but might escalate further.

Night fell. The hotel room glowed only from the bedside lamp. Film couldn’t sleep; she went out to the balcony, sitting alone in the chill. The city beyond was quiet, lights like thousands of watching eyes.

Namtan followed, draping her jacket over Film when she shivered. Sitting close, she spoke softly after a moment:
“Remember the first time I took you backstage? You were so scared, weren’t you?” Her voice was slow, like breaking a worry into smaller, easier pieces. “Remember when I taught you how to breathe in front of the camera, how to make your eyes shine? And that night in the rain with cotton candy?”

Film let out a small laugh, fleeting but warming. Memories returned—tiny pockets of peace amid chaotic schedules, days when they could just be children together.

Namtan continued, recounting when Milk accidentally knocked over the wardrobe backstage, Milk’s grimace when a collar didn’t fit, and Emi’s clumsy yet comforting ways. She tried to pull Film out of dark thoughts with these small, silly, warm anecdotes—like scattering little rays of sunlight over her heart.

Gradually, Film relaxed. She leaned her head on Namtan’s shoulder, listening to her steady heartbeat. “Keep telling me,” she whispered. “Don’t let me think about that letter.”

Namtan kept talking—her voice sometimes choked, sometimes laughing. They leaned against each other, like two souls finding one another in the midst of a storm.

Below, in the alley across the hotel, a man followed the walls, peering at them through a small telescope. His face curled into a vague smile, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

“Time to act,” he whispered to himself, coldly. “I’ll make both of them pay.”

The wind swept past, carrying his words like a dark secret. Inside the room above, the two leaned against each other, unaware that a tightening shadow was being laid around them.

No one slept through the night. But as the sun rose over the horizon, amidst fatigue and worry, one thing remained steady: two hands tightly clasped—a promise in flesh and blood that they would face whatever came together.