He did not sleep. Not really. Sleep was a concept, a system call the mind made to the body, but Theo’s body had been running on bugs and interrupts for days now, the code always caught in some loop. He lay there, stretched across a Vegas hotel bed so enormous it threatened to collapse under its own mass, the covers tangled at his knees and the room lit by a slow-rotating galaxy of casino glow and emergency egress. The clock on the nightstand read 1:53 a.m. The city outside had not stopped.

  Theo’s phone lay on his chest like a stone, screen up, inert, waiting for an event. Every few minutes, as if coordinated by some unseen force, he’d tap the lock button, check for new notifications, then let the screen go black again. The gesture had become reflex, a second heartbeat.

  Marcus’s words from earlier in the bar echoed, thick as a hangover: “I think you got catfished, bro. I think this ‘Kristy’ was never real. Or maybe she’s just another person who decided you weren’t interesting enough, so she bailed.” The first time he’d heard it, Theo shrugged it off, classic Marcus, always betting on worst-case odds. But the more the night wore on, the more the theory metastasized, crawling into every idle moment.

  He thumbed open his contacts. There she was: Kristy (the Hooded Avenger). Her name looked both absurd and terrifying now. He hovered on the option to delete the entry, as if that would purge everything that had led to this point. His finger was a hair’s breadth from execution when the phone pulsed, buzzed, and nearly leapt from his chest.

  He snatched it, half-believing it would be Marcus or Elena, offering a lifeline or a meme. But the preview was a block of text—long, nervous, desperate—and the sender was Kristy.

  KRISTY: I'm so sorry about tonight. I got stuck and couldn't get away. Are you still up? Can I see you?

  For a moment, Theo held the phone like it was radioactive. He re-read the message, parsing it for hidden meaning, evidence of manipulation or sarcasm. He tried to imagine what “stuck” meant in a city that thrived on mobility and late-night last chances. Maybe it was another joke. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was exactly what it sounded like: someone who wanted, truly wanted, to see him.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The clock now read 2:02. Theo sat up, cold sweat prickling the back of his neck.

  The inner committee convened: Marcus’s cynical voice, Elena’s soft encouragement, Darren’s resigned fatalism. Even his own father, voice recalled from some sunlit kitchen, “Don’t let your heart out-think your head.” But Kristy’s words were there too, from their first night at the coffee shop, the way she’d said, “You ever feel like the world’s watching and your anxiety just goes crazy?” as if she had been carving the phrase for this exact moment.

  He typed his reply slowly, deliberately, knowing each word would be dissected on arrival.

  I’m up. Room 3009, West Tower. If you want, you can come by.

  He hit send, then watched the status indicator: delivered, read, the little bubbles of ellipsis.

  KRISTY: thank you. i’ll be there soon.

  It was immediate. Theo’s breath hitched.

  He sprang from the bed, suddenly aware of his appearance: rumpled shirt, jawline rough, hair a disaster. He did a quick circuit of the room—empty bottles, discarded wristband, evidence of a man trying too hard to seem casual. He straightened the covers, checked his teeth in the mirror, and then sat back down, because standing seemed too eager.

  The wait, which was supposed to last a polite interval, stretched into a minor epoch. The minutes ticked in a new kind of time, elastic and unbearable. He heard every sound in the hallway: the hydraulic whine of the elevator, the distant cackle of strangers, the drunken falsetto of a bachelor party somewhere above. Every time footsteps approached, he tensed, rehearsed a greeting, and then let it fade when the noise passed.

  He checked the peephole, twice, and then felt ashamed.

  At 2:19, the phone lit up again.

  I’m on your floor. End of the hall, right?

  He stared at the message, as if willing it to arrive from a different universe. He typed: Yeah, just past the ice machine. I’ll leave the door cracked.

  KRISTY: ok.

  Theo stood by the door, hand trembling. The city’s light bled in under the threshold, a sickly yellow at war with the blue-black of hotel shadow. He could hear her now: footsteps, light but deliberate, each step a drumbeat in his chest. He wanted to scream, or run, or both.

  A pause. Then, a soft knock. Not the slam of urgency, but a hesitant, almost embarrassed tap, as if the person on the other side was equally afraid to confirm her own existence.

  Theo reached for the handle, knowing everything in the next ten seconds might rewrite the story of his life.