Page 26 of Damsel in Disguise

For nearly a year, it watched me from hedges and stone corners, from shadows that thought themselves invisible. I allowed it just because I wanted to see how far they’re willing to go.

Observation without interference is how you understand a system. But following my routes? Testing proximity? Now that’s arrogance.

I don’t tolerate the delusion that anyone can outrun me in a game I perfected long before they learned about the said game. If they want a game, they’ll get one—only on my terms.

People like to believe they’re hunters the moment they stop hiding. They forget that stepping into the open doesn’t always make you dangerous, it makes you vulnerable.

I study the rider through the mirror with calculated disinterest. Black leather from head to toe. Combat boots hugging the foot pegs. The helmet is black, visor opaque to erase identity. No telltale fidgeting. No unnecessary acceleration. Whoever this is understands restraint very well.

I increase my speed by exactly three kilometers per hour. The bike mirrors it after a couple of seconds of delay.

I guide the car away from the predictable arteries—less traffic, fewer witnesses, taking the first turn without signaling urgency.

Then another.

Then a third that loops us back just close enough to confirm suspicion without offering certainty.

Most people would panic here. They would peel off too fast or double back clumsily. This rider does neither. They hold their position.

So I escalate. I let the route drift farther from residential familiarity, toward roads that feel less remembered. The city exhales behind me, replaced by silence and shadow.

I take the fourth turn deliberately.

Unlike last time, the bike does follow.

A slow breath leaves my lips. Well, this is getting exciting. They’re not pretending anymore. Unless it’s a different person.

I continue driving at a steady pace until the road narrows and the surroundings lose their interest in being populated. I choose the stretch carefully—poor signal coverage, minimal lighting, and exactly two exit routes.

I pull off near a disused lane and wait for the night to settle around me. But I don’t step out of the car yet to avoid revealing myself. I simply allow the space to exist—open, quiet, inviting.

This isn’t about catching them yet. It’s about letting them believe they’re choosing to come closer.

I keep the engine idling, my foot light on the brake, and pull my windows down. Headlights cut a pale corridor through the dark, dust motes drifting like ash in their beam.

The bike doesn’t stop. It glides past my driver-side window at a measured pace, close enough that I can feel the displacement of air, close enough that I could reach out and touch the leather if I wanted to.

There’s no hesitation, nor any curious glance toward my car. Just pure confidence sharpened into absolute motion.

As the rider draws level with my hood, the angle shifts. My headlights catch the edge of the helmet, then the shoulder, then… Long hair?

It slips free from the back of the helmet in a loose spill too long to be accidental, too alive to belong to someone careless.

It’s not blonde, nor brunette. Something in between—golden-brown hair. Fire and shadow braided together.

It flares briefly, igniting under my headlights, then catches the last dying threads of sunset bleeding through the trees.

My spine straightens instinctively.

That detail doesn’t belong in the profile of a professional tail. Hair like that is a liability. It can be grabbed during a fight. Identified and tracked if found in a crime scene.

Unless it’s deliberate and the rider wants to be seen.

I’m certain it’s a female. Not because of the hair alone, but also because of the way her hips flare for straddling the bike.

I watch the silhouette retreat, leather and darkness swallowing the line of her body until she becomes nothing but sound again—then even that fades, swallowed by the road ahead.

What surprises me the most is the way she passed me instead of retreating. She moved like someone who understands momentum. She knows when to advance instead of withdrawing. That’s something most stalkers need time to grasp.