Mine. Every soft curve is a challenge, a secret I intend to unlock. My fingertips trace the line of her strawberry blonde hair on the screen, though I wish I could run my hands through the silky strands for real.
My vision tunnels. The edges of the screen blur, leaving only the soft focus of her face, those plush cheeks. The blood in my veins doesn’t feel like blood anymore; it’s a molten, driving force rushing through me, making my heart race like a trapped animal.
The sheer physical need to have her in my sight is overwhelming, but it’s the horror that truly consumes me. I see the Syndicate’s hands on her, rough, uninvited,hurtingher. A cold sweat breaks out on my skin. My knuckles turn white as I clench my fists, imagining splintering bones, snapping necks, and tearing through flesh to get to anyone who dares put a mark onmyRya.
The snarl rips through my throat before I can catch it, a sound of pure, feral malice.No. I turn the brutal, possessive intensity away from my rebellious imagination and channel it into action. That twisted fantasy is a distraction, a weakness. I need to be a wall, not a beast. Not yet. The only way to stop those scenarios is to neutralize the threat. Now.
Shaking my head, I attempt to refocus on the task at hand.Control, Miller. The last thing on the packing list is the surveillance equipment: micro-cams, signal scramblers, and directional mics. Everything I need to turn Rya’s world into my unbreakable observation post. I’m a tech-hunter, and I’m bringing my entire arsenal to protect her secrets and claim her soul.
I sling the heavy bag onto my shoulder. It feels right, the weight of the mission grounding me, even as my mind spirals with images of her round, rosy cheeks.
Passing by the mirror, I stop and stare at my reflection. I look like a killer. Too big, too scarred, too intense. My chocolate brown hair is a little messy, making me look like a wild animal. Blue eyes stare back at me, guarded and determined.Will I scare her?
The thought makes my jaw clench. It doesn't matter. She can be as scared as long as she's safe. I'll earn her trust later. For now, I just need to get her somewhere safe.
I take one last look at the monitor, unable to go more than a few seconds without having her in my sight. Rya is finally packing her books and journals into her bag, and I know the laptop will be next, cutting me off from my watchful, possessive gaze.
Her movements are slow and solitary, and my heart aches for her. She thinks she's alone in this world. She’s wrong. I can’t stop picturing her in my space. I imagine Rya on my couch, wearingone of my shirts while I rub her feet and she tells me every single detail about her day.
Reel it in, buddy, I chastise myself. I haven't even officially met her. She doesn’t know I exist. But she will. Soon. "Hold on, baby girl," I whisper, grabbing my keys. "I'm coming for you."
2
RYA
The fluorescent lights of the library break room hum a lonely tune that always manages to get on my nerves. It’s too quiet in here, and for the last hour, I've felt a familiar prickle of paranoia running down my spine. It’s nothing specific, and yet… something is definitely off.
Shaking my head of those thoughts, I try to comfort myself by blaming the feeling on lack of sleep. I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac, and my late nights sitting in front of a computer screen certainly doesn’t help.
Maybe I’m feeling extra aware of my surroundings because I’ve been running digital interference for a local animal shelter that’s being unfairly audited. It’s taxing, playing digital Robin Hood, but what else would I use my skills for? The downside is, lately I’ve felt like someone is watching me.
I peek over the top of my laptop screen, scanning the breakroom. Empty. It’s not just empty, though. I don’t know any other way to explain it except that the air feels… hollow. Like I’m in a vacuum of space or a deep underground tunnel. The only sounds are the air conditioner fan and the quiet click of my personal laptop's keys as I browse a few financial forums.
My official job is being a librarian. I love the quiet, predictable rhythm of it, surrounded by the comforting, dry smell of old paper and dust motes dancing in the columns of sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Out there, the library is an oasis, a fortress built of books. But this break room, with its chipped Formica counter and the perpetual, stale scent of lukewarm coffee, always makes me feel exposed. The relentlesshissof the vents and the cool air-conditioning on my skin do nothing to soothe the tension knotting in my shoulders.
A sudden, sharp movement makes me jump.
“Oh, Rya! Didn’t see you sitting there,” Susan, one of the newer clerks, chirps, dropping her lunch bag on the counter with a loudthud.
I flinch, clutching my chest as my heart attempts to jump right out of my cardigan. “It’s fine, Susan. Just… focused.” I try to offer a breezy smile, but it probably comes out more like a grimace.
Susan looks at me, then quickly looks away, muttering, “Right. Well, I’ll be quiet.” She grabs a coffee cup and retreats to the far end of the room.
It’s always like this. I've never been good at making friends. I’m too quiet, too focused on my screens, too much of a loner. People see the glasses, messy bun, curvy body, and just assume I'm happiest alone, buried in books or code. And, honestly? They’re right most of the time.
My mom was always loud and colorful, dragging me on her wild adventures until she left for good. Our life was a constant exercise in whiplash; one week we were living in a high-rise apartment in the city, the next we were sleeping in a rusted-out van in a desert town, just waiting for the next 'big break' that never materialized.
I never had a stable school, a permanent bedroom, or a consistent routine. I learned early that the only person I can truly depend on is myself, because the world around me was always shifting under my feet, ready to be ripped away without warning.
That frantic, unstable energy became the baseline for my entire life, setting the stage for every rejection that followed. Every time I reached out, hoping for connection, the ground crumbled. I was always the girl on the outside, looking in, terrified that if I stayed in one place too long, the floor would vanish again.
I remember third grade on the blacktop. I walked up to the group of girls with my heart pounding, offering to share my new rainbow loom band kit. A girl named Tiffany looked at my offering, then at my plus-sized body, and just smirked. "We don't need your baby toys, Rya. Go play with your books." The sting of rejection was like a physical burn. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but instead, I just retreated. No one tried to be my friend after that.
When I finally saved up enough money to go to community college, I decided to put my best foot forward. This was it, the new Rya, the confident Rya. I carried my tray into the student union, saw a table full of laughing people, and thought,I’m going to walk up, introduce myself, and become their friend. I got halfway across the room, my legs feeling like cement, and then I panicked. The room was too loud, their smiles too bright, and my new leaf crumbled. I ended up eating my lunch standing in the corner of the room, huddled over a trash can so I didn’t have to look anyone in the eye.
My luck here at the library, surrounded by other book lovers, hasn’t been any better.
