I need a plan. A real plan, something more than just defiance. Something that will get him out of my head, out of my life, for good. I will not let him win. I cannot. The stakes are too high.
Fourteen
West
Idrive back to my apartment, the city lights blurring into streaks of color. The satisfaction of the lab is potent, but it’s a fleeting thing. Like everything else, it leaves me wanting more. Always more.
My apartment is a fortress of silence, a stark contrast to the buzzing chaos of the lab. I pour myself a scotch, the amber liquid catching the light. I don't drink for pleasure, not really. It's aritual, a way to mark the end of one task and the beginning of another.
I unlock the bottom right drawer of my oak desk. The Moleskine. I open it to the page where Kinsley’s quiz is taped. Her name, her perfect handwriting. A small, tangible piece of her. I trace the letters with my finger, a faint tremor running through me.
This isn't just about control. It's about…ownership. About proving I can take something so fiercely independent, so perfectly composed, and make it mine.
The memory of her in the lab, her jaw clenched, her hands trembling, her eyes blazing with defiance sends a jolt through me. She hates me, but she responds to me and that response, that raw, unadulterated emotion, is a drug.
A memory surfaces; unbidden, sharp and cold as a winter wind.
I’m seven years old, standing in the vast, echoing foyer of my parents’ house. The marble floors are polished to a blinding sheen, reflecting the crystal chandelier above. My mother is on the phone, her voice a low, melodious hum, but her words are like ice shards. “No, darling, West is quite alright. He’s with the nanny. We’re simply too busy tonight.” She doesn’t even look at me. Her hand, adorned with a diamond the size of my thumb, waves dismissively in the air.
My father enters, his face a mask of weary indifference. He glances at me, then at my mother. “Still here, West? Don’t you have hockey practice?”
“It’s Saturday, Father,” I say, my voice small, barely audible in the cavernous space. “Practice is tomorrow.”
He sighs, a sound of profound disappointment. “Right. Of course. Well, don’t just stand there. Go… read a book. Or something.” He doesn’t offer a hug, he doesn’t offer a smile. Hejust turns to my mother, a flicker of something almost human in his eyes for her and then they’re gone, swallowed by the waiting limousine.
I stand there for a long time, the silence of the house pressing in on me. The nanny is somewhere in the kitchen, probably on her own phone. I am alone. Always alone. In a home filled with expensive things, but utterly empty of warmth.
I walk to the grand staircase, my small hand trailing along the cold, carved banister. I go to my room, a room bigger than most people’s apartments, filled with toys I never play with. I pull out a hockey stick and a puck and start shooting it against the wall, the dull thud echoing in the silence. One hundred shots. Two hundred. Three hundred. Each shot was a desperate attempt to make a sound, to make a mark, to prove I exist.
Later, Uncle Asher arrives. He’s not like my parents. He’s sharper, colder, but he sees me. He considers the ambition and drive, he sees the potential. He watches me practice, his eyes assessing. “You want to be good, West?” he asks, his voice low. “Then you have to be the best. You have to be indispensable, you have to make them need you. Make them fear you. Make them unable to imagine a world without you.”
He hands me a small, leather-bound notebook. “Start keeping track. Everything. Everyone. Knowledge is power, West. And power, my boy, is the only thing that truly matters.”
The memory fades, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. My parents. They never loved me, not in any way that mattered. Their affection was conditional, tied to performance, to accolades, to being a reflection of their own success. When I failed, I was invisible. When I succeeded, I was a trophy.
Uncle Asher understood. He saw the emptiness, the desperate need for something to fill it. He taught me how to build my ownworld, piece by piece, brick by cold, calculated brick. He taught me to collect, to control, to own.
And now, Kinsley.
She is not a trophy, she is not an accolade. She is something raw, something untamed, something that sparks a fire within me that I haven't felt in years. She pushes back, she challenges me , she makes me feel. And that, in my carefully constructed world is a dangerous, exhilarating thing.
I open the Moleskine again, and I add a new entry. Kinsley Fischer. Emotional response:high.Defiance:extreme.Potential for… engagement:unlimited.
The phone call to Professor Davies was just the beginning. The lab was a test: her reaction, a confirmation.
She thinks she’s fighting me. She thinks she’s defying me, but she’s just reacting. And every reaction, every spark of her fire is another step deeper into my carefully laid plans.
I close the notebook. The game is no longer just about winning. It’s about total absorption, about making her realize that the only person who truly sees her, who truly understands the fire within her, is me. And that realization, when it comes, will be her undoing. And possibly mine.
Fifteen
West
The silence is a weapon. A void. A question mark I have left hanging in the space between our phones. She drew a line, and I refused to acknowledge it. The victory is subtle, but absolute.
I sit in the dark of my apartment, the glow of the city lights painting patterns on the floor. The scotch sits untouched. The win feels… incomplete. Her defiance, her attempt to impose rules on me was exhilarating. But her silence now is a lockeddoor, and I have a compulsive need to know what is happening on the other side. I need to understand the source code.
My uncle Asher’s voice echoes in my memory, cold and clear as glass.Knowledge is not just power, West. It is the architecture of control. To truly own something you must know its every blueprint, every stress point, every hidden flaw.
