Nearly two years had passed since Irene’s last relationship had fizzled out in a slow, messy unraveling. She had sworn off dating for a while telling herself she’d use the time to focus on work, friends, and simply learning to be okay on her own. And for the most part, she had been. But loneliness has a way of sneaking in like a draft through a closed window: quiet, gradual, but persistent. Eventually, she found herself craving connection—not something serious, not right away, but enough to remind her what it felt like to laugh with someone over a shared drink or to feel the electric little thrill of being seen.
That’s when she heard about Rundle. It was a new dating app making the rounds in her social circle. Its ads promised better matches through an algorithm that learned your personality and preferences faster than competitors. A few friends had already found flings or even relationships through it, so Irene figured why not? She downloaded the app one Friday night and filled out her profile, picking a mix of casual and candid photos that she hoped said, I’m approachable but not desperate.
It didn’t take long before she matched with a man named Mark. His profile was refreshingly free of the typical shirtless gym mirror selfies or cryptic one-line bios. Instead, his pictures showed him kayaking, reading in a café, and playing with what looked like his niece. His written answers were thoughtful but lighthearted, and they had enough shared interests—hiking, indie films, trying obscure coffee blends—that their conversations flowed easily.
Over the next few weeks, their chats evolved into daily exchanges. They messaged about work, about life in their respective towns, about favorite books and movies. He had a dry sense of humor that kept her grinning at her phone. Just to be safe, they agreed to video call a few times before meeting in person—something Irene had learned to do after hearing too many catfishing horror stories. Mark looked exactly like his photos, and the calls only made her more confident about meeting him.
Because they lived in different towns about an hour apart, they settled on a halfway point: a small, independently owned café Irene had read good things about online. The plan was simple—meet for coffee, see how it went, and take it from there.
On the day of their meet-up, Irene arrived ten minutes early, the late morning sun spilling over the café’s outdoor seating. She picked a corner table where she could see both the entrance and the parking lot, sipping on a glass of iced coffee as she waited. She texted him:
Hey, I’m here! Wearing the blue sweater we joked about.
Twenty minutes passed. The ice in her coffee had melted into pale amber water. No reply. She tried calling, but his phone went straight to voicemail. She sent another text, keeping it casual—Everything okay?—but deep down she already felt the sinking weight of disappointment settling in her chest.
Finally, she pushed the watery coffee aside and waved for the check. The waiter who brought it over was a tall, tanned man with warm eyes and an easy smile. He noticed her phone still in hand and the faint crease in her brow.
“Bad news?”
He asked. Irene hesitated but decided there was no harm in telling him.
“I think I’ve been stood up,”
She said, with an attempt at a shrug.
“We’d been talking for weeks. Guess he changed his mind.”
The waiter gave a small, sympathetic shake of his head.
“Then he’s not worth your time,”
He said firmly.
“You look too nice to waste a coffee on someone like that.”
She laughed politely, though the sting of rejection made her smile brittle. He lingered for a moment, asking where she was from and if she came here often, his tone leaning toward flirtatious. Irene was polite in return but made it clear she wasn’t interested. She left a tip, thanked him, and walked out into the bright parking lot.
Sliding into her car, she exhaled a long sigh, fishing her sunglasses from the glove box. As she reversed, movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. The waiter, jogging toward her, waving his arms. Oh great, she thought, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Probably another attempt to chat her up. She kept driving, pretending not to notice.
But minutes later, as she merged onto the highway, a honk blared behind her. In the rearview mirror, she saw the same waiter’s face, grim and urgent, behind the wheel of a dusty sedan. He was gesturing frantically, mouthing words she couldn’t hear.
Confused, Irene switched lanes to let him pass, thinking he was simply in a hurry. Instead, he matched her speed, rolling down his window and yelling something she couldn’t make out over the wind. Her pulse quickened. This was strange. His gestures turned sharper. He was pointing at her car, motioning for her to pull over.
“No way,”
She muttered under her breath, pressing harder on the gas. The sedan surged forward too, keeping pace. That’s when she saw him reach into the passenger seat and pull something out. It caught the sunlight—a gun.
Her breath hitched. Every muscle in her body locked in place, her mind suddenly blank with shock. Her only thought was: Comply. Stay alive. She eased the car onto the shoulder, heart hammering so loudly she could barely hear her own breath. Her hands went instinctively up, palms out, as she stepped out of the vehicle.
“Please—please, I don’t know what’s happening,”
She stammered.
“Don’t hurt me, I swear I haven’t done anything—”
The waiter’s voice was sharp and urgent.
“Get out of the car. Now!”
It wasn’t until she turned toward her vehicle that she saw movement from the back seat. A shape rising slowly. Her blood ran cold.
Mark, the man she’d been waiting for, was there, crouched and pale, a twisted smile on his face. In one hand, a long knife gleamed; in the other, a coil of rope.
Every sound around her seemed to fade—the distant whine of cars, the rustle of wind. It was just her, the armed waiter, and the predator in her back seat.
The waiter’s stance didn’t relax until the flashing lights of a police cruiser came into view. Officers swarmed the scene, dragging Mark out and cuffing him as he spat curses at Irene.
Shaking, Irene leaned against the hood of the waiter’s car while a uniformed officer explained, “He’s part of a crew that’s been using dating apps to find victims. You’re lucky. Most people aren’t this lucky.”
Later, as another officer drove her home, she stared out at the passing blur of fields and road signs, her mind looping the same thought: I could have been dead today.
Back at the café parking lot, the waiter—now alone—sat behind the counter, casually sipping from a mug. He reached into his apron and pulled out a phone. It wasn’t his.
On the screen glowed Irene’s text thread with Mark, along with dozens of other women’s profiles. He scrolled lazily, eyes scanning, pausing at a picture of a smiling brunette.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“This’ll make my spree more fun,”
He murmured,
“and a whole lot easier.”
He slid the phone into his pocket just as another customer walked in, his smile shifting effortlessly back to warm and harmless.
