I met him in a book group. His avatar was a blurry photo of his neck next to a bookshelf, his biography was simple: “Kiko – likes Murakami, black coffee and yellow cats.” Those things resonated with me: Japanese novels, late nights and lazy old cat Muning. His messages were polite, humorous enough, not annoying. Two weeks passed, I felt like I was wearing a sweater that fit me: when it was cold, he sent me a jazz link; I complained about a backache, he sent me an office back cushion; I spilled coffee on my keyboard, the next afternoon a new keyboard cover was left by the door, with a note: “Be careful next time, clumsy girl.”

There was only one flaw: he never made video calls. During the day, I could still hear him on the phone, his voice was deep and warm, a little hoarse as if he had just drunk cold milk. But at night, he disappeared from the airwaves. The messages were sometimes answered quickly, but whenever I suggested “let’s do a video”, he would avoid me: “I’m shy about the camera”, “My hair is messy”, “I’m sleeping, tomorrow.” Once I texted “I miss you”, he replied “It’s me” and sent a photo of a man’s hand on a book. No face. No context.

Mica – my best friend – pouted when she heard the story:
– The classic formula: afternoon during the day, disappear at night, avoid video, only send detailed photos. One is having a wife, two is having something to hide, three is… both. Don’t be led by the nose.

I argued:
– There are people who really hate cameras. Besides, he knows too much about you, does things too delicately…

– Knowing too much can also be a bad sign, Lira. Ordinary people are not that delicate, unless… well, unless they put too much effort into it. And where does the extra effort come from? From following you.

I tapped the table lightly, trying to smile:
– You watch too many detective stories and become paranoid.

Mica shrugged:
– If you want to know, just call him in the middle of the night. A married person wouldn’t dare answer. Or… a person with a phone somewhere else wouldn’t answer either.

That night, in the condo in Tomas Morato, Quezon City, I rolled back and forth on the gray bed. Muning huddled at the end of the bed. Phone: 23:57. I hugged Mica’s determination like a life preserver. 23:59. I pressed the name “K – black coffee”.

The bell rang once… twice… I held my breath.

The next second.

Under the bed came the familiar “buzzing” sound – the phone vibrating to silence. The vibration matched the ringing rhythm on my screen.

I jumped up. My heart hit my ribs. Muning arched his back and growled. “Buzzing… buzzing…”. There was no mistaking it – the sound came from right below.

I bent down and pulled the sheet covering the bed frame. Dust, darkness, and… a piece of black cardboard covering the crack near the corner of the wall. I reached in and touched something cold and smooth. The phone. I pulled it out – a black smartphone with old, scratched stickers. The screen lit up just as the words “K – black coffee” appeared. I was calling – and the thing that was vibrating was… his phone.

I hung up. It was so quiet it was nauseating. My hands were shaking, I turned it on. Plain black wallpaper, no fingerprints, just a PIN. Four numbers. I tried my birthday – wrong. 0101 – wrong. I glanced at the keys, sweat pouring out. Thinking of Muning, the cat he often mentioned. I pressed 0606 – the day I received Muning. The screen opened.

What caught my eye was an automatic recording app with a series of files by date. Next to it was a “hidden” app disguised as a computer icon, clicking on it was a monitoring software: “Auto Answer – Microphone Remote – Camera Trigger”. My heart sank to my heels.

The photo folder had no faces – only corners of my house: wooden table, shoe cabinet, sink, window overlooking the apartment across the street. A photo taken at 3am, my shadow on the bed. A 2-minute video of me talking to my mother. Every sentence.

The phone rang. Kiko called. Seeing the name flash on the screen, my hand froze. I didn’t pick it up. I ran to the toilet, locked the door. Muning scratched under the bed as if demanding back the “thing” that had been dragged out of the cave.

A text message arrived: “Are you asleep?” Then: “I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was outside.” More: “Did you hear something?”

I typed: “Where are you?”
“I was walking in the park. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Video?”
“It’s late… I’m shy. My hair is messy.”

“Can I call you?”

“No, my headset’s microphone is broken.”

I put his phone on the sink, taking screenshots of each app. In the Documents folder, there was an Excel file listing my schedule: “Monday 7:45 open – Wednesday 17:30 return – Friday take out the trash at 20:00”. Note: “Call at 22:15, listen for 15 minutes, laugh 6 times.” Below was the “Request” column: “silver ring – keyboard – cushion”. I was paralyzed. The “pampering” gifts were not because he understood, but because he knew from here. From the machine under the bed.

I wanted to vomit. Mica’s words echoed back.

I called Mica, whispering:
– Come to my house. Now. Don’t ask. Bring something so you don’t die of fear.

Mica arrived in ten minutes, holding a self-defense spray and a folding stick. He looked at the phone, looked at my pale face, didn’t say anything, just opened the camera and took pictures continuously.

– This one has an auto-answer setting. – Mica squinted – It means he picks up the phone when there is a call from your number. You call at night, the mic is on, he hears your whole room.

– But why does it vibrate when I call him?

– Because this is the phone he uses. He uses a dual SIM or secondary SIM, and leaves it under your bed. At night, he “doesn’t pick up” because… the phone is at your house. He chats with another device, or uses this phone only to text. You call it an open mic.

– How did he get into the room? I locked the door.

Mica looked around: the lock – the window – the air vent next to the air conditioner.

– He could be a PMO technician, or a security guard with a master card, or a delivery man when you were away…

I remember two strange times: last month, someone from the management came to “check the fire alarm”; the day I received the new keyboard, I went to the supermarket for a while, and came back to find the package neatly in the room. I thought I forgot to lock it.

– Don’t destroy it right away. – Mica calmed down – Put it back as before. Install a hidden camera opposite the bed. Report to barangay tanod. I know Kuya Dennis on duty. Come to my house tonight. Let’s see if the “model citizen” comes back to maintain the equipment.

My fear turned into a hot, furious rage.

That night, we put the phone back under the bed in the same place, and mounted the mini camera on top of the cabinet. I locked the door tightly, put the handle inside, sprinkled fine powder in front of the door to get shoe prints. Then, took my bag and went to Mica’s house.

1:00. Mica, Kuya Dennis and I sat in front of the phone screen connected to the camera. My room appeared silent. 1:30. 2:00.

2:17, the door moved slightly. The doorknob turned slightly. A thin card was inserted into the lock slot, click. The door opened. A figure slipped in: baseball cap, mask, PMO technical coat. He closed the door softly, went straight to the bed, knelt down. Pulled out the phone, wiped the dust, checked it, then put it back, adjusted the mic to the headboard. He stood, walked past the desk, bent down to the corner of the power outlet – added an unfamiliar charger. Glancing around the room, stopping at the photo of me and my mother, then took a small box from his pocket, put it on the bookshelf: “Electric toothbrush – for Lira.” I wanted to tear the screen apart.

Kuya Dennis jumped up:

– Go!

He called out to two more barangay tanods who were lying in wait downstairs. Five minutes later, the image shook: the door opened, the sound of people. His figure jumped toward the balcony, about to climb to the next house. An arm stopped him. Amidst the shouts of “Barangay tanod here!”, his voice was harsh:

– You got the wrong person! I’m PMO! I’m checking the system!

– Which system is under the bed? – Kuya Dennis’s voice was sharp.

The mask fell off. The face revealed through the lens: the ground floor coffee counter staff under the apartment building in Tomas Morato – the guy who always smiled, who always asked for the number to “deliver for convenience”.

I really threw up, right in Mica’s living room. Not because of shock, but because of disgust. All that “care” was creepy disguised as concern.

Nearby PNP Precinct. I sat on a plastic chair, holding a bottle of water, listening to the officer read the minutes:
“Subject: Santos ‘Kiko’ Ramon, PMO technical collaborator, working part-time at the ground floor cafe. Behavior: illegal entry, trespassing, placing a wiretapping/recording device. Motive: ‘unrequited feelings, wanting to protect the victim.’”

I burst out laughing and then cried. Mica squeezed my shoulder. I told her everything from the avatar of the neck to the gifts. The officer added: “Exploiting address information from the resident system and orders to approach.”

– Do you want to sue?

– I do. So that other women will not become ‘victims’ of the so-called “protection”.

As he passed by, he looked at me, his eyes wet like a “pitiful sinner”:

– You know I care, Lira? I just want to be close to you. I’m afraid others will hurt you.

– No. I just want to control me. And I hurt me.

The following days were a series of tasks: working with PNP, contacting PMO, changing locks, installing deadbolts, asking the technical team to check the sockets – ventilation slots – smoke detectors. PMO’s face turned pale, apologizing profusely, promising to tighten the master card and collaborator procedures.

I moved to another apartment in the same building, higher floor, automatic door, 24/7 camera corridor. Muning was given a ring so I knew where it went. Mica pulled me into a personal safety class: how to identify strange devices. I smiled wryly:

– Now I believe you watch detective stories for the benefit of the country and yourself.

At night, I slept for three hours straight. Then five hours. Then I dreamed of the sea, no longer under the bed.

A week later, the local newspaper published a small section: “Beware of invasion of privacy through digital devices.” I read it not to torture myself, but to know that I had gone through the story – not to be the next victim.

Kiko was prosecuted for invasion of privacy and residence, suspended sentence with fine, compensation; 200m ban. The coffee shop has a new employee. I pass by. The new person asks:

Do you have much or little sugar?

No sugar. And… no address.

I choose to stay alone for a while longer. Still reading Murakami, still drinking black coffee. But between me and the screen now there are rules:

Do not accept gifts from people I have not met in person.

Do not let strangers “know” too much of my schedule.

Do not ignore logical signs because of a few “pampering” gestures: avoid videos, do not listen at night, only send photos to avoid identification.

Trust my intuition – and Mica’s.

One night, I changed my ringtone. The “buzzing” sound had long since stopped. The space under the bed was clean and empty, except for Muning’s box. Mica texted: “Coffee tomorrow?”
I replied: “Yes. Brewed at home. Filter, no sugar. And certainly no ‘friendly barista’.”

On the table, the new notebook was open. I wrote the first line: “I am not afraid anymore.” Then underlined. I am not afraid anymore – not because I am naturally strong, but because I have learned to look straight at the logic of things, not to embellish them with gifts and sweet words. I wrote a small “detective” case for myself: a midnight phone call, a ‘buzzing’ sound under the bed, a mini camera and a timely decision.

The end is not waiting for the “right person” to knock on the door, but closing the door that was opened with a strange card – and holding the key in my own hands.