I navigate to the university’s student wellness portal. The security is pathetic, a digital chain-link fence easily bypassed with the proper credentials. I type in her student ID. Her file appears. A log of appointments. Session notes, heavily encrypted. But I don’t need the notes. I just need the diagnostic summary.
The file opens, and there it is. Two words.
Bipolar II Disorder.
The air leaves my lungs in a slow, silent hiss as the world tilts and then snaps into a terrifying, perfect focus.
Everything clicks into place. The intense focus, the vibrating, frantic energy, the rapid-fire shifts from defiance to despair. The desperate, all-consuming need for control. It’s a war she’s been fighting her entire life. Not against me. Against her own mind.
A strange, unfamiliar feeling washes over me. It’s not triumph, it’s not pity. It’s… reverence. A chilling, profound admiration. All this time, I thought I was hunting a clever, fiery creature. I was wrong. I’ve been watching a master artisan build a fortress of perfect grades and icy composure around beautiful, raging chaos.
My obsession, which had been a cold, calculated game now ignites into something else. Something hot, possessive, and terrifyingly absolute. She is not a project to be solved. She is a masterpiece to be collected.
This changes everything. The game is over. This is no longer about winning, this is about preservation. Her preservation.Under my care. She thinks I am the threat, but I am the only one who can possibly understand the war she is fighting.
This new purpose requires more than observation. It requires presence. I turn back to the main monitor, to my primary feed.
My feed is Kinsley’s phone. Her digital soul, and she delivered it to me herself.
I remember the moment with perfect clarity. It was after the first lecture. I had sent her the email, the one praising her quiz score and “expecting” her at the review session. Its true purpose was hidden in the signature. Beneath my name and title, I embedded a simple hyperlink: “Click here to view full class diagnostic score distributions.”
It was the perfect bait for a perfectionist, an irresistible lure. I was sitting here, in this very chair, watching a monitoring program on a second screen. I saw her open the email. Then, the monitor flashed.
Connection established.
Data sync initiated.
Stealth protocol active.
She had clicked it. In that single, impulsive click she had handed me the keys to her kingdom. The software is a ghost, acquired through one of Asher’s less savory contacts. It gives me everything. Her texts, her call logs, her search history. Her location.
Asher’s voice echoes again.The most effective weapon is the one your enemy doesn’t know you have.
And now, the narrative is unfolding in real time on my screen, filtered through a new, profound understanding of who she truly is.
Kinsley:
Pizza sounds good. Be there in 10.
Her location data updates. She’s leaving her dorm and heading for Chloe’s. From there, they’ll walk to “Gino’s Pizzeria,” their usual spot.
I close the laptop. She thinks she’s finding refuge with her friend, a brief respite from the war. She believes she has a safe space.
It’s time to show her that her safe spaces no longer exist. It’s time to show her that I am not just a ghost in her machine. I am a physical reality she cannot escape, I am the only constant.
I’m not going to Gino’s to talk to her, I’m not going to confront her.
I’m going to be there. Sitting in a booth. Eating a slice of pizza. When she walks in I will look up, and our eyes will meet. And in that moment, she will understand the terrifying, beautiful truth of her new reality:
There is no coincidence, there is no escape. There is only me.
Sixteen
Kinsley
The buzzing in my head has transformed from a chaotic static into a sharp, focused hum. I meet Chloe in the hallway of her dorm. She takes one look at my face, and raises an eyebrow.
“Whoa,” she says. “You look… intense. Did you solve cold fusion or something?”
