"Sophia, it’s back."

Arthur’s voice trembled as he stared at the ceiling, his knuckles white around the rolled-up magazine. A faint buzz hummed near his ear—taunting, persistent—before fading into the shadows of the bungalow.

It began in June, under the blistering Mediterranean sun. Arthur had come to Neos Marmaras for peace: mornings kayaking in the Toroneos Gulf, afternoons napping in salt-stiffened sheets, evenings watching the sunset stain the sky amber. But peace evaporated the moment it arrived.

At first, it was just a nuisance—a flicker at the edge of his vision, a prickle on his neck during lazy beach naps. By July, the bites started. Tiny, furious welts bloomed on his ankles, his wrists, the nape of his neck. He’d slap blindly, only to find empty air. Sophia laughed, dabbing ointment on the marks. "It’s just a mosquito," she’d say. But Arthur swore it was more.

It watched him.

He felt it in the way the buzz lingered near his ear during dinners, as if eavesdropping. In the way it circled his head each morning as he pulled on his snorkel gear, as though jealous of the damselfish and loggerheads. At night, it invaded his dreams—a phantom whisper, a shadow darting just beyond reach.

By August, the bites turned vicious. Red constellations mapped his arms; his ankles swelled. Sophia stopped laughing. "You’re allergic," she insisted, pressing antihistamines into his palm. But Arthur knew better. This was no ordinary pest.

It hunted him.

He’d find it waiting in the shower stall, wings quivering with anticipation. It trailed him to Vourvourou, buzzing mockingly as he paddled his kayak. Once, he glimpsed it perched on Sophia’s shoulder as they shared a smoothie—a tiny, arrogant sentinel. He swung at it, knocking the drink from her hands. "It’s taunting me," he hissed, ignoring her exasperated sigh.

Sleep became a battleground. He’d lie rigid, listening for the telltale whine. When it came, he’d lurch upright, slapping his own limbs in the dark. Sophia moved to the couch, muttering about "paranoia."

But Arthur’s dread hardened into resolve. He bought citronella candles, mosquito nets, a handheld electric zapper. He sprayed DEET until his skin gleamed. Still, it returned—always at dusk, always alone—drunk on some vendetta.

On the twenty-eighth night, he cracked.

He’d been tracing a fresh bite on his forearm when the buzz crescendoed. There, on the lampshade—it. Smaller than he’d imagined, legs delicate as thread. Yet its presence filled the room.

Arthur froze. The mosquito tilted its head, antennae twitching. For a heartbeat, he almost pitied it. Then, with a snarl, he brought his palm down.

A muffled crunch.

"Did you get it?" Sophia called from the kitchen, slicing tomatoes.

Arthur lifted his hand. A smear of blood, a crumpled speck of wings. "Yeah," he breathed, collapsing onto the bed. The room felt lighter, the air cleansed.

Outside, the Aegean sighed against the shore. Somewhere, a family of mosquitoes hummed in the dark. But for now, Arthur closed his eyes, savoring the silence.