Total privacy comes at a price.
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May Long and David Sim were the IT couple—awash with glitz, drowned in glamour, and flooded by paparazzi camera lights.
Their holiday—turquoise waves lapping the shore—was more than well-deserved.
The coastal villa of Amalfi spread out in its magnificence as their superyacht kissed the shoreline, its shadows covering the edges.
The couple had a reputation for ignoring fans–they needed the help May had promised in her posts.
The couple’s relationship thrived beyond the camera’s lens—and not with the chatty vibes of the Enquirer.
The paparazzi caught on—long before they could fold their tripods. Their Tik Tok photos came to life–when they didn’t know.
May’s photos on TikTok recorded more than May and David—they captured long shadows, their subtle movement teasing the edges.
Shadows traipsed through the villa’s long hallways, dark forms that should have been filed away long ago.
The secluded beach and opulent resort were perfect private trappings for the millionaire couple—they could record kisses and take private selfies to mark their romance.
At least, for two weeks.
Until small oddities reared their dark heads.
Shadows lagged behind their reflections, movements slightly out of sync. Others extended what seemed to be arms, reaching toward them with unheard pleas.
The discomfort triggered May, who recorded the strange movements on camera—disembodied shadows dancing before the lens. They appeared again in reposts on social media by her enthusiastic fans.
The comments grew stranger.
“May, the mirror in your room was in a different place last night,” said one.
As the comments grew, so did the villa—rising and moving in tandem with the shadows, each pair engaged in a disembodied dance.
A storm disrupted their Amalfi adventure—the villa’s architecture twisted in contortions that would make a vine blush. It wasn’t alone in doing the twist.
A pale hand.
Blue veins—varicose.
Fingernails—too long.
A moving shadow that wasn’t hers—or David’s.
A single touch—felt, but unseen.
The walls of the bedroom became a canvas for a digital landscape—Amalfi Villa on the wall.
Overgrown with creepers.
The backlight of May’s mobile came on—and out it stepped.
The couple sat up in bed, jaws dropped.
It stood in full view, in May’s favourite red dress. Hair just as long.
But—too pale.
“You wanted privacy—those kisses on your phone? Not for TikTok or Instagram? They come at a cost.”
A snicker. May’s mouth rounded in a scream that wouldn’t sound. David’s fingers found the bed’s headboard.
“I’m the guardian of your secrets—every private smile, kiss, and gesture. Each time you have one, I see it. Even if no one else does.”
“And the price of those secrets?”
A sweep of her fingers, and May’s TikTok profile filled the bedroom wall from floor to ceiling.
Number of fans—zero.
Villa Amalfi was calm—waters a perfect pastel blue.
May’s TikTok profile lit her screen—with more pictures of herself and David.
At restaurants, simply savoring foie gras with the family.
Her comments?
Warm—but controlled.
To members of a growing fanbase.
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