She’s angry.
And she’s looking for me.
Perfect.
This is where the fun starts.
I don’t go far.
The world thinks predators roam.
They don’t.
Predators nest.
And my nest is close.
A sliver of woodland separates her perfect life from the place I’ve carved into the earth like a wound. A rundown maintenance building from the old estate—long abandoned, forgotten, swallowed by ivy and rot.
Everyone thinks it’s condemned.
No one thinks to step inside.
I push the warped door open with my shoulder, the hinges groaning like they’re warning anyone with sense to turn back.
Good thing I don’t have any left.
The place smells like damp wood, old earth, and something sharper—metal, ink, a familiar scent I’ve dragged through hell and back.
I flick on the lantern.
The soft gold glow spills into the only room that matters.
My shrine.
My obsession.
My goddamn sanctuary.
Scarlett stares back at me from every wall.
Polaroids I took when she wasn’t looking.
Screenshots from videos she didn’t know I saved.
Newspaper clippings from the trial.
Her school photo.
Her graduation picture.
A candid shot of her laughing—head thrown back, eyes bright.
A darker one—her crying outside a courtroom door.
And the newest ones: taken through the glass of her kitchen window, her silhouette pressed against the marble like she was trying not to fall apart.
I breath out slowly. “Hey, baby.”
