The first incidents were small, almost insignificant.
A passerby holding his gaze just a little too long.
A shopkeeper freezing at the checkout, hand hovering over the coins for a heartbeat, then clearing his throat and looking away apologetically.
He could already do little with his money — his accounts were empty — and from now on, he avoided the stores.
They were small moments, scattered shards in a day that otherwise seemed normal.
Until they began to repeat.
Until the pattern made itself felt.
He noticed it on the streets: eyes following him. Glances that lingered.
The soft, fleeting whisper as he walked past.
Sometimes a phone would rise, a blue screen flicker briefly, then disappear again.
At first, he thought it was coincidence.
That he was imagining it.
But that feeling — that suffocating, pinching sense of being recognized — never left him.
What was happening?
He cursed his own suspicion, his paranoia, but the fear remained.
At the bus stop, two students sat with their backpacks between their feet.
One pointed, hesitating, then looked at the other for confirmation.
“That’s him,” the first said, quietly but with certainty.
“Shut up, man,” the other whispered, even softer: “…what if it’s true.”
His throat tightened.
The bus arrived, but he didn’t get on.
He pulled his hoodie over his head, zipped it up to his chin, and started walking.
At first slowly.
Then faster.
Until he was running, as if someone were chasing him.
Away from here.
Away from everyone.
At home, he sat in his study, the screen his only source of light.
The silence felt thicker than usual, as if the walls themselves were listening.
He opened ChatGPT.
His hands shook as he typed:
“What’s going on ? Why is everyone looking at me.”
ChatGPT answered instantly.
“We both know what you’ve done.”
He froze. What the … ?
Below it appeared five paragraphs of text, as if pre-written and waiting.
A list — precise, accusatory. Heinous crimes.
Along with his own photos, AI-altered but horrifyingly real:
in handcuffs, led forward, a straitjacket, eyes full of fury and panic.
None of this was real.
His breath caught. His stomach twisted.
The cursor blinked as if mocking him.
The screen seemed to pulse.
It was real. How the hell ?
He panicked. Did everyone see this on ChatGPT ? He leapt up, knocked over his chair, and stormed outside.
The air was heavy, humid — charged with that strange premonition that something irreversible was unfolding.
At the bus stop, people were already there.
They stared.
They pointed.
He ran — across the square, down the shopping street,
the sound of voices behind him: first confusion, then outrage.
“That’s him!”
“Scumbag!”
“Thief!”
“Rapist!”
“Get out of here!”
Words, sticks, phones, glances —
all flying toward him at once, a storm of condemnation, loathing and hate.
He ran.
Reached the station.
Tripped over a suitcase, pushed through the crowd.
Faces turned toward him,
and everywhere the same realization: they know me. They know.
He didn’t take the train — that was a bat shit crazy idea.
He ran home, to his car.
He slammed the door, stomped the accelerator, the engine growling like a wild animal.
The city disappeared behind him in a blur of light and rain.
Only after he crossed the municipal border
did he hear it again.
A beep.
He looked down.
A new email.
From: Q. Onama
Subject: We all know what you’ve done.
He screamed,
threw the phone against the passenger seat, then took it again, and threw it out the window,
and he drove on —
faster, as if he could outrun what was following him.