It started with a simple compliment.

“That smells amazing. Can you make me one sometime?”
Andrei, my new coworker, smiled at me across the break room. He was charming, easy to talk to — the kind of guy everyone liked. I didn’t think twice about saying yes.

“Sure,” I said, grinning. “Just return the container clean.”

He did.

The next day, he handed me a Tupperware box. I opened it, expecting to see leftover sauce or a quick thank-you note.

Instead, tucked inside, was a scrap of paper towel — torn, wrinkled, covered in shaky, blocky handwriting:

“Get away from him before it’s too late.”

My hands froze.
My breath caught.

I stared at the words. No name. No explanation. Just a warning — urgent, cryptic, and deeply unsettling.

Was it a joke?
A prank?
Or something worse?

The handwriting wobbled like it was written in panic. And that phrase — “before it’s too late” — sent a chill down my spine.

I glanced around the office.
Andrei was typing away, calm, focused.
Oblivious?
Or pretending?

I slipped the note into my bag and sat down like nothing had happened.
But inside, my mind was racing.

Who wrote this?
Why?
And how did they know I was making his lunch?

Andrei had only been at the company for two months. Everyone loved him — smart, funny, always offering help. We weren’t dating, but we talked every day. Shared lunches. Joked about office drama.

Still… sometimes he was too attentive.
Too interested in my life.

He’d casually ask where I lived.
Suggest neighborhoods I might like.
Once, he mentioned seeing me at the gym — but I’d never told anyone at work I went there.

At the time, I brushed it off.
Now, it felt like pieces of a puzzle I didn’t want to solve.

That night, I showed the note to my roommate, Mara.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure he didn’t write it? Maybe it’s some weird joke.”

I shook my head. “Why would he warn me about himself?”

“Unless,” she said slowly, “someone else packed that container.”

The thought hit me like ice water.
Someone had access to his things.
Someone was watching.

The next day, I tested him.

“Hey, how was the chicken yesterday?” I asked.

“Delicious,” he said, flashing that easy smile. “You have wonderful hands.”

I laughed, but watched his face. “Did you pack the container back this morning?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason. Just checking if the sauce leaked.”

He didn’t flinch. No guilt. No hesitation.

But that didn’t calm me.
If he was hiding something, he was good at it.

I stopped making him lunch. When he asked why, I said I was too busy.

And then I started paying attention.

To him.
To who was around him.
To who was watching me.

That’s when I noticed Olivia.

Quiet. Reserved. Always at her desk, headphones on. She and Andrei started around the same time, but they barely spoke.

Except… she kept staring at us during lunch.

Not a glance. A stare.
Intense. Unblinking.
Then, when I looked back, she’d snap her head away — almost ashamed.

One evening, I stayed late. The office was quiet. I walked over to her desk, pretending to need help with a client file.

“Hey,” I said casually. “Can I ask you something weird?”

She looked nervous. “Sure.”

I pulled out the note. “Did you write this?”

Her eyes widened.
She looked at the paper. Then at me.
“You found it.”

“You wrote it?”

She glanced around, then leaned in. “I had to. How else could I warn you?”

My heart pounded. “Warn me about what?”

She bit her lip. “Andrei. He’s not who he says he is.”

I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

She took a shaky breath. “I worked with him before. In another city. His name was Adrian then. I didn’t recognize him at first… but it’s him.”

“What happened?”

She lowered her voice. “There was a woman. She made him lunch. Just like you. Then she started getting messages. Things moved in her apartment. She thought she was going crazy. She reported him — but he covered his tracks. Left town before anything stuck.”

My stomach twisted.

“I wanted to go to HR,” Olivia whispered. “But I had no proof. I couldn’t just say, ‘That guy is a stalker.’ They’d think I was crazy. So I left the note. It was the only way.”

I believed her.

Not because it made sense.
But because it fit.

The questions about my address.
The gym sighting.
The way he mirrored my habits.
It wasn’t charm.
It was grooming.

The next day, I went to HR.

I didn’t accuse him directly.
I said I’d heard disturbing things.
That I felt unsafe.
And I asked for a background check.

They promised discretion.

Days passed.
Then a week.

Andrei stopped showing up.

Later, HR called me. The woman on the phone sounded tense.

“We need to thank you,” she said. “We ran a check. The name ‘Andrei’? Fake. He’s used at least four aliases over the past five years. Multiple harassment reports — never charged, but all with the same pattern: charm, isolate, manipulate, disappear.”

My blood ran cold.

“He’s been terminated. Law enforcement is involved.”

I walked out of the office feeling like I’d just stepped off a ledge.

That night, I texted Olivia.

She replied with a single word: “Free.”
Then a message: “I didn’t realize how much I was carrying until now.”

But it wasn’t over.

Two weeks later, I got an email.
No subject.
Just two words:
“Thank you.”

I froze.
Unknown sender.

I called Olivia.
She’d gotten the same.

We blocked the address.
Told no one.

Six months later, we were on a beach, laughing, toes in the sand, no shadows, no fear.

We’d become close — bonded by what we’d survived.
Weekly lunch swaps.
Same taste in books.
Same terrible office memes.

Then, one morning, Mara called me into the living room.

“Uh… you need to see this.”

The news was on.
A story about a man arrested in another state for identity theft, stalking, and psychological manipulation.

The mugshot flashed on screen.

It was him.

Not Andrei.
Not Adrian.
Another name entirely.

He’d used at least four identities, targeting workplaces with high turnover, embedding himself, and preying on women who trusted him.

This time, he was caught — thanks to an anonymous tip.

I don’t know if it was Olivia.
Or me.
Or both of us, in our own quiet way.

But I like to think we helped.

Because sometimes, the smallest warning — a note on a paper towel, a gut feeling, a whisper — can change everything.

And I’ll never ignore one again.