Unseen Eyes (Part 1)
Melissa
I'd been secretly filmed.
The camera was no bigger than a fingernail, hidden inside the electrical outlet in my bathroom. For six whole months.
From that angle, every trip to the toilet, every shower, every private moment—all of it had been captured.
Six months earlier, the previous owner, an elderly woman in urgent need of cash, had sold her apartment in the old district at well below market price. I'd drained my savings to buy that secondhand flat, then borrowed tens of thousands from friends to transform the seventy-square-meter space into a home that was unmistakably mine.
I thought I'd gotten a steal. I thought I'd finally found a harbor after years of drifting. I never imagined it would be the start of a nightmare.
The old electrical wiring was temperamental. The previous owner had warned me not to plug a hair dryer into the bathroom outlet—it would trip the breaker.
I'd mentioned this to the renovation crew, the building management, and, after I moved in, vented about it to my friends and my boyfriend.
A lot of people knew I never used that outlet.
That day, I'd bought an electric toothbrush. The charger was low-wattage—I figured it wouldn't overload the circuit. So I plugged it in.
The toothbrush didn't charge. Instead, I found the pinhole camera.
The moment I pulled the device free, my heart nearly burst through my throat. Images of myself in the bathroom flashed through my mind on repeat: undressing, showering, using the toilet, even—
I couldn't breathe. I stumbled back to the living room and frantically searched online for "pinhole camera."
Nothing useful came up. Shopping sites wouldn't display results. News sites offered only nightmare-inducing stories.
I didn't know where to find information about these devices. Who sold them? How clearly could they record? Could the footage be traced back to the person watching?
I knew nothing. My face burned while my hands and feet went ice-cold.
I used to enjoy watching slice-of-life livestreams—they felt cozy and relatable. But now, staring at the endless grid of "cameras" on my screen, all I felt was vertigo. The garish pages morphed into a many-eyed monster reeking of foulness, lunging at me from all sides.
I fled my own apartment and crouched in the hallway, wanting to call my boyfriend but frozen in place.
My boyfriend, Felix, was smart, driven, the star of every room he entered. His life didn't have a single stain on it.
I'd always been ashamed to compare myself to him. That was why I'd thrown myself into buying an apartment before we got married—proving I was independent enough to deserve him.
I loved him completely, and he loved me back—or so I believed. He poured his whole heart into me.
At his suggestion, we shared a single online shopping account. I could see every purchase he made—household supplies, electronics, professional books. He could see mine, too.
Once, I bought a deal on a boutique hotel room to host a visiting friend. Felix called me within minutes, demanding an explanation. I stammered apologies, spooked.
He cared too much. I couldn't imagine how furious he'd be if he found out someone had filmed my naked body.
I couldn't call him.
I couldn't call the police, either.
I'd sunk every penny into this apartment. My work, my life, my entire existence was anchored here. I couldn't afford to lose it.
Which meant whoever planted that camera knew exactly where to find me.
Even if the police caught the peeper, how long would he serve? Ten days? A month? Six months?
And when he got out, what then? How would he retaliate? If the story went public, how would everyone look at me?
They'd laugh at my stupidity for not noticing sooner. Then they'd point at my back and whisper: That's her. The girl from the latest scandal.
How could I live with that?
---
That night, I searched every inch of my apartment, using every technique the internet recommended—checking outlets, appliances, picture frames, stuffed animals.
Thankfully, there was only one camera.
When I finished, I forced myself to calm down and think.
I remembered Contractor Chen, who'd overseen my renovation. He was pushing fifty, short and stocky. When I first met him, he'd asked why I wasn't supervising the work more closely. I told him I was busy at work and didn't want to bother my boyfriend.
He'd smiled and called me a "treasure"—an independent girl like me was rare, he said. Then he'd warned me that the renovation industry was full of pitfalls and I should stay vigilant.
At the time, I thought he was a decent man. Now that word—"treasure"—made my skin crawl.
I thought about his apprentice, too. A compactly built young man in his early twenties who barely spoke, always head-down at his work, looking honest and unassuming. But when I handed him a glass of water, his fingers had brushed against mine.
And then there was the property manager, Cai. He'd come by to register my information and asked if I was single. I told him I had a boyfriend, and he laughed, telling me I was silly—property decisions should be left to men. Women who bought homes were just throwing money away.
He knew I lived alone. He knew my schedule. Every time I ran into him in the complex, he'd flash me a grin.
The day I moved in, I'd invited a bunch of colleagues and friends over. We drank until well past midnight. One male coworker who'd had a crush on me spent a long time in the bathroom. I assumed he was throwing up and even brought him milk to settle his stomach.
Now I couldn't remember what he'd been doing in there.
I didn't know who to trust. I suspected everyone with equal intensity, and every compliment I'd ever received—pretty, cute, great body, beautiful skin—transformed into a pair of unseen eyes lurking in the dark, staring at me from every direction.
I had to catch the bastard. Make him stop this disgusting invasion.
If he wouldn't listen, I'd tell the person closest to him what he'd done. Drive him out of my life for good.
Once I made up my mind, I formed a plan.
---
The next day, I sent Contractor Chen a message, asking if he could convert my bedroom windowsill into a storage cabinet.
He replied almost immediately: Can do.
I asked how many workers he'd bring. He said he'd bring his apprentice.
A chance to kill two birds with one stone.
For safety, I invited two friends over for dinner on the day of the measurement.
After ushering the two men into the bedroom, I pointed at the window and rattled off a few vague requirements, then explained that my friends were visiting and I couldn't stay in the bedroom. I asked them to measure on their own.
Once they started working, my friends were busy in the kitchen. I crept back to the bedroom doorway and peered inside.
Contractor Chen unrolled his tape measure and called his apprentice over to help with the windowsill dimensions.
The apprentice pulled the curtain aside, and a small black object tumbled to the floor with a soft clatter, making him jump.
He picked it up, turning it over in his hands.
It was the pinhole camera I'd removed from the bathroom outlet.
Before they arrived, I'd attached the camera to the inside of the curtain. I knew that measuring the windowsill would require moving the curtain, and the camera would fall.
If either of them had planted the original camera, seeing the real thing would give them away.
My palms were slick with sweat.
Contractor Chen asked what it was.
His apprentice hesitated. "A camera?"
Chen chuckled. "In the bedroom?"
The apprentice tugged the data cable. "See this circle? That's the lens. And there's a cable."
Chen paused. "A camera. In the bedroom?"
The apprentice smirked. "Spice things up, maybe."
Chen glared at him and snatched the camera, setting it on the nightstand. "Nonsense. Back to work."
Neither of them touched the camera again.
The measurement finished quickly. The apprentice went to use the bathroom. Contractor Chen pulled me aside and asked if the thing on the nightstand was mine.
I hesitated, then nodded.
He seemed relieved. I asked why.
He grew serious. "I was painting a young woman's rental once, and she found one of those inside her air conditioning unit. You girls living alone—you need to be careful. Good thing this one's yours, though. No problem, then."
Looking at his sincere expression, I felt a pang of guilt. He was only a few years younger than my father. He'd treated me like a daughter, and I'd suspected him of being a pervert.
His apprentice, meanwhile, had examined the camera with genuine confusion—not like someone who'd installed one.
I saw them out with a heavy conscience. Contractor Chen said he was backed up with other jobs but would send his apprentice to do the installation in a couple of days.
I nodded and waved goodbye.
As I did, the apprentice shot me an inscrutable smile—dry, tinged with something sleazy.
Fear shot up my spine. I stared at him. He raised one hand and made a little gesture—a "lens," or something far worse—then left with a look of smug satisfaction.
I stood frozen in the doorway, remembering that he'd used my bathroom. I ran back inside and pried the outlet open again.
Nothing.
My friends called out, asking what was wrong. I didn't answer. I tore through the bathroom, checking every possible hiding spot for a second camera.
I found nothing.
Where had he put the new one? Why couldn't I find it?
My mind was a tangle of static. After I'd seen my friends out, I messaged Contractor Chen to ask for his apprentice's contact info and sent the man a message: "What are you trying to do?"