The blue light of the screen hummed, casting a pale glow over my cramped desktop in Mong Kok. On the monitor, the interface of InkWell—the story-writing platform where I had spent two years building a modest following as an emerging writer—was open.

But I wasn’t writing. I was staring at the notifications.

@Void_Watcher: "The tea shop in your third chapter feels so real, Elise. Almost like the one on Sai Yeung Choi Street where you sit by the window every Tuesday at 4:00 PM."

@Void_Watcher: "You changed your hair. The shorter cut suits you, but I miss the long strands you used to tuck behind your ear when you got stuck on a paragraph."

My breath hitched. I hadn't written about my real-life schedule. I hadn't posted a selfie on InkWell. The platform was supposed to be a sanctuary for my fiction. Now, it felt like an panopticon. The stranger wasn’t just reading my words; he was reading me.