Unseen Eyes (Part 2)
He sent back a string of grinning emojis, then: "What's wrong?"
I gathered my courage, my fingers trembling as I typed. "I'm warning you. If you keep harassing me, I'll tell Contractor Chen!"
Another flurry of emojis—surprised faces this time. "Hey lady, I was just kidding. You mad?"
"This is a joke to you? It's a crime!"
He went silent for almost fifteen seconds before replying: "You're crazy. I just made a little gesture. How's that a crime? You're the one with toys in your bedroom, playing all kinds of games, and I make one joke and suddenly you're acting all pure."
I was so furious my tears nearly spilled over. I wanted to fire back, to demand how he had the audacity to turn it around on me—but then I stopped.
If he was the one who'd planted the camera, he'd know exactly what "crime" meant. He wouldn't fixate on the hand gesture.
Was it possible... it wasn't him?
After a moment's hesitation, I typed that I knew what he'd done in the bathroom.
He was livid. "What I did? Taking a piss in your bathroom is a crime now?"
The peeper wasn't him.
I sat in my living room, staring at a home that felt increasingly alien, my heart hammering like a drum.
Unable to find the camera, I stopped using the bathroom entirely, going to the office whenever nature called. I washed my hair at the sink, afraid to shower. At night, I slept fully clothed, every inch of skin covered.
When Felix came over, I refused to let him stay the night. I'd shovel dinner into him and practically push him out the door.
After a week of this, he was visibly annoyed.
I knew I had to catch the peeper, and fast.
---
My next target was Warren, the male coworker who'd once pursued me.
I asked a female colleague to casually inquire whether Warren knew where to buy pinhole cameras. I claimed I wanted one for home security—a hidden camera at the front door, to avoid confrontations with neighbors.
She looked at me like I was from another planet but agreed to ask.
Two days later, she reported back. "Where did you hear that Warren has a source for those?"
I hedged.
She rolled her eyes. "Your intel is completely bogus. The guy doesn't know anything about hidden cameras. You made things super awkward for me."
I asked if he genuinely didn't know or was just playing dumb.
She gave me a look that said I was an idiot and said she'd worked with him long enough to read people.
While we were chatting, Warren appeared at my desk.
I went rigid.
He said he needed to talk to my colleague about something. She nudged me with her elbow and told him to spit it out.
He hesitated before speaking. "You asked about this earlier... Can I actually talk about it? The pinhole camera thing. I asked around. They're not sold openly—you have to go through special channels, and even then it's not easy to get one. Honestly, I think a regular surveillance camera is fine. Lots of people install them by their front door. You could just talk to your neighbors about it. And if it ever catches a burglar, that's good for everyone."
My colleague shot me a meaningful look. "Exactly. I told her the same thing."
I kept my head down and didn't respond.
After she left, Warren tapped the desk and asked if something had happened.
I stared at him, goose bumps rising along my arms—half desperate for him to confess, half terrified of the answer.
But he said, "Did you and your boyfriend have a fight? I know you're close, and I'm not trying to intrude, but if he's treating you badly, you tell me. I'll be there."
I looked at his open, earnest face and nearly broke down. The exhaustion, the helplessness, the isolation of the past week pressed against my eyes in a hot flood. I thanked him, my voice cracking.
---
Then my phone buzzed with a friend request on a messaging app.
I accepted it.
A flash photo appeared—of my naked body. And a message: "Slut. Is that you?"
I went cold all over. Fighting back nausea, I asked who he was.
He just kept repeating: Is that you? Are you the one in the photo? You like touching yourself?
I spent the rest of the afternoon in a fog. I made so many errors on my spreadsheets that my boss reamed me out in front of everyone.
After work, Warren tried to catch me. I dodged him and bolted.
I couldn't go home. Felix texted to ask about dinner, and I lied, saying I was eating with colleagues.
I couldn't check into a hotel, either—Felix would see the charge on our shared account, and I couldn't explain it.
It was nearly midnight before I dragged myself toward my building.
And there, pressed against my front door, peering through the peephole from the outside—
Cai. The property manager.
His bulk was silhouetted against the frame, his eye glued to the fisheye lens like a fat grub stuck to the door.
If it wasn't Contractor Chen or his apprentice, if it wasn't Warren, it had to be him.
My heart jumped into my throat. "What are you doing?"
He turned and smiled. "Working late, huh? I was delivering your electric bill. Pay up or they'll cut you off."
I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move. I clenched my phone. "Stay away from me. You're married—where's your conscience? Don't think I'm an easy target. I'm not calling the police yet because I'm giving you a chance. But if you keep doing this disgusting shit, I'll report you to your company and make sure your wife finds out!"
Cai raised his eyebrows and held out a slip of paper. "What are you talking about? Electric bill. I'm delivering your electric bill."
Excuses. All excuses.
I knocked his hand away and ordered him to leave.
He stumbled backward, finally spooked. I yanked open my door and threw myself inside, slamming and dead-bolting it behind me.
From the other side, I heard no footsteps.
I crept to the peephole and looked out.
Darkness. He was standing right there, his eye still pressed to the lens.
I slid to the floor, hand clamped over my mouth, my whole body trembling.
My phone buzzed again. The stranger: "Slut. Why aren't you answering?"
I typed back through my tears: "I told you to back off! I'll tell your wife!"
Minutes passed. He didn't respond.
My pulse finally slowed. It was over.
Then my phone vibrated.
He said: "You don't even know who I am."
---
Warren
I stroked her cheek. "Melissa..."
She was already dead.
In the dim light, her lovely face was streaked with tears. Even now, she was beautiful.
From Melissa's first day at the company, I had wanted her.
She was petite but curvy, with pale skin and the long black hair I loved most. Without makeup, she was a six out of ten—but her smile was pure, and with a little effort, she turned heads.
And she was kind. Frugal, hardworking, rarely ordered delivery, always bringing her own lunch in a soft yellow container. You could tell she could cook.
Landing a girlfriend like her would've been the luck of a lifetime.
Too bad someone beat me to it.
But I believed there was no wall too thick for the right shovel.
I flirted with her constantly. Gave her career advice, steered good projects her way, brought her breakfast and afternoon tea, helped her handle difficult clients.
For all my effort, her heart remained fixed on her boyfriend. She even turned down my birthday present.
I never thought I'd lose at love.
At least, not until I found a camera in her bathroom.
---
The day Melissa moved into her new place, she'd invited a crowd of coworkers to warm the house. Felix came too—they spent the whole evening draped over each other, making sure everyone could see.
I knew Felix was putting on a show just for me. He wanted me to back off.
Seeing her cuddled against him made my blood boil. I challenged him to a drinking contest, got him to puke twice, and ended up pretty wasted myself.
During my third trip to the bathroom, I splashed water on my face and stared into the mirror, my head full of images I couldn't unsee—Melissa and Felix together.
Maybe I was too lost in thought, or maybe the alcohol clouded my judgment. When I flushed, I knocked the soap dish off the toilet tank. Soapy water splashed onto my pants—slick and gross.
I moved to the sink to clean up, but the wet spot was in an awkward place. I grabbed for paper towels, wishing there was a hair dryer, and my eyes drifted to the outlet.
Something was nestled inside it. From certain angles, you could just make out a faint glint of reflected light.
My pulse spiked. I leaned closer.
It was definitely a pinhole camera.
As it happened, I recognized the neighborhood. When Melissa mentioned she'd bought a secondhand apartment, I'd asked around and learned it had belonged to Simon Song, a kid I'd gone to middle school with.
Simon was a degenerate. Even as a teenager, he'd liked flipping up girls' skirts and had been hauled to the principal's office for peeping into the women's restroom.
I knew immediately: the camera was almost certainly his.
I didn't tell Melissa.
Two days later, I arranged a dinner with Simon through mutual friends.
He was heavier than in middle school, greasy black-framed glasses, face shining with oil.
After a few beers, I slid my phone across the table, the outlet photo on screen.
He stiffened, then busied himself selecting skewers from the grill.
I grinned. "Not going to beat around the bush. That apartment is my colleague's place. You never had a chance to retrieve the memory card, so it must be uploading in real time. You saw me, didn't you?"
Simon licked his lips and managed a nervous "heh heh."