I turn my head slowly, my eyes meeting his. I don’t say anything. I just look at him until he grows uncomfortable and steps back.
“Right. Uh, I’m gonna go get another drink.” He disappears into the crowd.
The brunette is still there. “So, are you going to say something?” she asks, her voice sharp.
I finally look at her. Really look at her, and I feel nothing. Annoyance. Impatience. She’s a distraction from the only thing that suddenly matters.
“Go home,” I say. The words are quiet, flat. Not a suggestion.
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
I don’t repeat myself. I just hold her gaze until the anger in her eyes is replaced by fear. She turns and storms off, disappearing into the sweaty mass of bodies.
My phone is already in my hand. I pull up a number and type a quick message.
Me:
Need a name. Girl. Black hair, green eyes. Just kissed me and ran. Check the library security feed from yesterday, 3rd floor, around 4 PM.
I don’t have to wait long. My phone buzzes a minute later. My contact is efficient. That’s why I use him.
A name, and a student ID number.
Kinsley Fischer.
Kinsley. The name tastes right. I pull up the university database, a system I learned the back doors to in my first year. It’s incredible what people will give you access to when they think you’re just a dumb jock.
Her file appears. Sophomore. Nursing major. A single dorm in Juniper Hall. And a phone number.
My fingers move, typing out the two words that have been echoing in my head since she ran.
Me:
You’re fast.
I hit send.
The hunt has begun, and she doesn’t even know she’s the prey.
Four
Kinsley
My phone feels contaminated. I don’t even bother blocking the number; I know it’s a pointless gesture. A guy who can get my number in minutes will do what it takes to message again. Instead I power the phone off completely and shove it under my pillow, cutting off the connection.
Sleep doesn’t come. My mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding and sparking, too fast to grasp, too loud to silence. It’s not just fear; it’s a cold, simmering fury that vibrates throughevery nerve ending. This isn’t a game. This is a campaign, and he’s just made his opening move. The adrenaline from the encounter is still coursing through me, making my skin prickle, my senses hyper-alert.
By morning the fury has sharpened into a diamond-hard resolve, almost a manic certainty. I’m not going to hide. I’m not going to let him scare me away from my own life. I have a Chem 102 lecture in a hall that holds three hundred people. It’s my sanctuary, a place of facts and formulas where I am anonymous and in control. He can’t touch me there. Hecan’t. Hewon’t. The conviction feels absolute, almost unshakeable.
I arrive early, claiming my usual seat: third row, aisle. I don’t cocoon myself between others for safety. This is my spot. I will not be moved. I focus on my notebook, sketching the structure of a benzene ring. The familiar patterns are calming the wild energy buzzing under my skin, trying to channel the racing thoughts into something productive.
The lecture begins. Dr. Albright is a stern, no-nonsense woman who commands attention, and I gratefully sink into her lesson on reaction kinetics. For forty-five blissful minutes, there is no West Monroe. There is only the predictable, logical world of science, a temporary balm for my overstimulated mind.
Then, the heavy door at the front of the lecture hall opens with a soft groan.
My head snaps up. The sound is too loud, too sudden.
West Monroe steps inside. He walks directly to Dr. Albright and hands her a folder.
