A few weeks had passed since the terrifying incident with my arm. Slowly, the physical wounds had closed, and my doctor finally gave me a clean bill of health. I tried to convince myself that it was just a string of bad luck—a freak accident that wouldn't repeat itself. But deep down, a cold knot of anxiety remained tied in my stomach. To celebrate my recovery and a recent successful project, my company organized a grand evening party at a high-end luxury hotel. I knew I couldn't hide forever, so I decided to attend, hoping to reclaim some normalcy in my life.
The hotel's rooftop was breathtaking, centered around a shimmering, turquoise infinity pool that seemed to merge with the city's glowing skyline. I was standing near the edge of the water, dressed in my favorite evening gown, holding a glass of sparkling cider. I was surrounded by the rhythmic hum of music and the lighthearted chatter of my colleagues. For a moment, I actually felt safe. I was laughing at a joke made by one of the senior managers when the world suddenly tilted.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blurred figure. A waiter, carrying a heavy tray of crystal glasses, was shoved violently from behind. He collided into me with full force. I didn't even have time to scream before I felt the terrifying sensation of falling backward. The cold, chlorinated water swallowed me whole.
When my colleagues finally pulled me out, gasping for air and shivering, I thought the worst was over. But within seconds, a horrifying sensation began to crawl over my skin. It wasn't just the cold; it was a searing, agonizing heat. My skin felt like thousands of tiny needles were being driven into it simultaneously. An intense, unbearable itching spread from my neck down to my legs. In a frenzy of pain, I began to scratch my arms and chest, but everywhere my fingernails touched, thick, angry red welts erupted like whip marks across my pale skin. I collapsed onto the tiled floor, writhing in pure agony as the party-goers watched in stunned silence.
I was rushed to the emergency room, my vision blurred by tears of pain. The doctors immediately began dousing my body with cold antiseptic water, which felt like a miracle against the fire burning on my skin. After an hour of treatment, the head doctor walked in with a grim expression.
"You've been targeted with a highly concentrated skin irritant," he explained, checking my vitals. "It's a chemical designed to cause extreme allergic reactions upon contact. Fortunately, it isn't life-threatening, but the recovery will be grueling. You will experience severe, recurring itching for the next week. And remember, every time you scratch, those red marks will flare up again. It's going to take a lot of willpower not to touch your skin."
Shortly after the doctor left, two detectives entered the room. Their faces were solemn, and they didn't waste any time. "We've reviewed the CCTV footage from the hotel," the lead officer said, his voice low. "The man who pushed the waiter was a professional. He was wearing a dark hoodie, a medical mask, and a low-hanging cap. He knew exactly where the cameras were and managed to stay in the blind spots. He's the one who spiked the pool with the chemical just minutes before you were pushed."
He stepped closer, his expression turning fatherly yet serious. "Miss, you need to be extremely cautious from now on. We are assigning two officers to guard you at all times, but you are your own best witness. Try to remember—did you have a fight with anyone recently? Is there anyone who might hold a grudge against you? Think back to your past, your work, or even your social circle. If you feel even the slightest bit of suspicion toward anyone, no matter how small it seems, you must contact us immediately."
As they left, a heavy silence filled the sterile hospital room. I looked at my reflection in the window—my skin was covered in red, angry blotches, and my eyes were hollow with fear. The constant tension was eating me alive, gnawing at my sanity. Whom did I ever do wrong? Why is someone following me like this? Do they want to kill me, or is their goal simply to keep me trapped in this endless cycle of torture? Every shadow in the room now felt like a threat, and I realized that my life had become a game where I didn't even know the rules.