At first, it looked like a pile of dirty clothes. But as I got closer, I saw it twitch—a tiny, weak movement. It was a puppy. Curled up, filthy, and barely breathing.

His fur was patchy, and his eyes held no fear—just a kind of quiet hopelessness. I gently spoke to him and started filming, just in case I needed to contact a shelter.

That’s when it happened.

A loud crack echoed through the alley. I flinched and looked around but saw nothing.

Later that night, I watched the video again—and noticed something I hadn’t before. Right after the noise, a tall human figure moved behind me in the frame. Fast. Silent. Slipping behind a dumpster.

Someone had been there. Watching.

The next day, I took the puppy—now named Patch—back to the alley. I searched everywhere. Nothing. Just some fresh footprints that didn’t belong to me.

I gave the video to the police. They said they’d patrol the area, but it was clear they were puzzled too.

Patch is safe now. Happy. Healing. But I still glance over my shoulder sometimes.

Not because I’m scared—but because that day reminded me: even in the loneliest corners of the city, someone might be watching.