We sit in the dark, the city’s pulse thrumming beneath us. I watch her window until the lights go out, committing every gesture, every routine, to memory. She thinks she’s safe now, doors locked, blinds drawn.
She has no idea how thin the walls really are. I want her to feel exposed. I want her to realize that every step she takes, every word she types, is already mine.
I murmur the word, just for myself: “Mine.”
Obsession coils tight inside me. The old ache, the old pleasure. The game is already in motion, and Sera’s at the center. Her fire will burn bright, but only for me.
When the street is quiet, Pavel starts the car. I keep my eyes on the window, watching for a final flicker of movement, a last sign of resistance. There’s nothing.
I know she’s awake, staring into the dark, pulse quickening. Waiting for a shadow she can’t yet name.
Good. That’s exactly how I want her.
We pull away slow, engine barely more than a murmur. I keep my gaze fixed on the building, tracking each window as the city recedes behind glass and rain-smudged streetlights. Pavel drives in silence, well-trained, giving me space to think.
The image of her lingers—shoulders squared against the world, jaw set in stubborn defiance, even in the safety of her own apartment. Most people would try to blend in, disappear. Sera doesn’t. She endures, as if challenge is all she’s ever known.
I picture her behind those thin walls, the glow of her computer painting restless shadows across her face.
Maybe she’s scrolling through reports, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. Maybe she’s remembering the feel of my hand at her waist, the mask and music, the threat threaded through every word. She’ll wonder if it was all in her head, if she’s being paranoid.
She’s not.
Tomorrow, she’ll wake up tired, nerves frayed, glancing over her shoulder at every sound in the hallway. That’s how it starts… doubt. Uncertainty. A seed planted. It grows into fear, and from there, anything is possible.
I want her uncertain. I want her sharp.
Pavel flicks a look at me as we hit the avenue. “You’ll see her again?”
I don’t bother answering. My plans don’t require his approval.
She’s in my world now, whether she knows it or not. If she runs, if she tries to hide—so much the better.
Nothing is more satisfying than the moment when they realize there’s no escape. Not from me.
I sit back, pulse steady, the night opening in front of me. The game has begun, and I intend to win.
Chapter Five - Seraphina
The week drags, every day thick with a tension I can’t name. My laptop starts acting up first. Emails disappear or send themselves twice; attachments blink out of drafts, then reappear hours later. I watch the cursor jump across the screen.
Some days I blame a software update, others I wonder if I’m just exhausted. Logic never fully calms the unease. The feeling settles in my chest, low and cold.
I double-check my front door each morning, keys jingling as I tug on the lock. Coming home Tuesday, my stomach drops. The door sits open by an inch, not wide enough for a neighbor to notice but enough for me to know I locked it that morning.
My hand shakes when I push it open. Every light is exactly as I left it, shoes lined up in a row, groceries still on the counter. I check closets, under the bed, the bathroom. No one waits for me in the dark, no sign that anything’s been taken or moved.
I stand in the middle of the apartment, heart hammering, telling myself it’s nothing. Maybe I missed the latch. Maybe my nerves have twisted everything out of shape. Still, I sleep with the bedroom door locked. When I close my eyes, I hear the creak of old hinges over and over, all night long.
On the street, I start noticing a car. Black, glossy, expensive. It shows up more than once, parked along the curb near the crosswalk, always angled toward my building. The windows reflect city lights: faceless, impenetrable. Sometimes it sits right across from my apartment; other times, it lurks two blocks down, just close enough to see. I snap a photo on my phone, heart skipping, and send it to Izzy.
She calls me five minutes later, voice warm with laughter. “Babe, you need to get laid. That’s not the Mafia; it’s probably just some Uber driver on break.”
I try to laugh. It sounds brittle, not quite right. “Iz, I know when I’m being watched. This isn’t in my head.”
She calls me a few choice words. “You watch too much true crime. Maybe you need a night out, get the anxiety out of your system.”
I say nothing, but that night, I wedge a chair beneath the door handle. I start walking the longer route home, eyes flicking over my shoulder, every footstep behind me a jolt of adrenaline. The black car appears again the next night. Instinct says it’s not an accident.
