Page 59 of Damsel in Disguise

The city settles into darkness gradually, the sky bruising into deep indigo before surrendering to night entirely. I’m dressed in the Dracula version of myself that runs from the daylight and towards the darkness.

Black leather fitted from collarbone to ankle. Boots designed for silence rather than statement. Gloves thin enough to preserve dexterity. A leather mask with two big cat ears drawn covering the upper half of my face.

My reflection becomes less innocent. This is the girl he never fully accounted for.

In the middle of the night, I kick into my bike and take a crowded route to his mansion, careful not to make the same mistakes again.

I know I just recovered from the recent bike accident, and I shouldn’t ride one this soon, but the ‘shouldn’t’s have always been a tempting invitation to me.

There’s so much hoot-n-holler behind me, many already recording me. I can feel their unrestrained excitement.

It’s really cool to see someone dressed as Catwoman riding a Ducati at a hundred on the highway. I busk in their admiration, waving ‘hi’s whenever stopped at the signal.

Within twenty-five minutes, I reach his place, Boars Hill. As soon as I near, I turn off my headlights.

Last time when I left, I took my sweet time memorizing the way out.

I pretended to be scared so that he wouldn’t bother with checking the CCTVs to see what I was doing around—to him, I looked like I desperately wanted to leave.

I took my time spotting the blind spots of whatever security radar he has installed here. Thanks to my genetically superior memory, it wasn’t much of a hassle to preserve them in my brain.

But I didn’t rely on my one-day investigation.

I spent the last two nights dodging every bullet to memorize the outside blueprint of his mansion too well. I promised myself not to get into any more trouble, so I came in prepared, thinking that if I needed to kill, I would, unhesitantly.

Tonight’s the time I think I’m ready. Ready to break in.

Parking the bike a few meters away, I blend into the darkness behind me.

Warm lighting glows behind reactive glass, giving the illusion of domestic tranquility rather than strategic design.

My gaze falls over the trees surrounding the property. For someone like Alistair Hertley, the security is awfully simple. Maybe because everyone knows him as the professor—who’d even want to harm a professor?

The house does not rely on intimidation but relies on institutional confidence.

However, the most interesting part of the mansion isn’t the dense trees but the fact that it overlooks the Oxford University. The way the lights of the campus glint in the distance is so mesmerizing that one might get lost in the trance of staring at it.

I remain across the street long enough to let my pulse steady, and my observations sharpen, studying the property not as a lovestruck girl but as someone assessing a perimeter.

The security is doable. Cameras are not mounted conspicuously—they are embedded along structural seams and recessed beneath roofline angles and tree branches where they are less likely to be noticed.

Motion detection is woven discreetly into landscaping fixtures and entry thresholds.

There’s a narrow interval along the side elevation where thermal recalibration resets for a few seconds before the next sweep begins. It’s small, almost arrogant in its design, as though the architect assumed no one would ever be patient enough to notice.

It’s a secondary access point likely designed for authorized service rather than intrusion. It’s not the primary system, and that is precisely why it matters.

When the timing aligns, I move with controlled speed, keeping close to the trees where heat disperses unevenly from the internal system.

I wait for the next recalibration. Once it hits, I slip past one tree. Then another… and another.

After five of them, I’m standing in his yard. A slow exhale leaves me as I look around.

The front door has to be locked. Even if it isn’t, it’s too risky to go in through the main doors. I need to take the windows—that is, if I find any open, breaking one would certainly draw attention. Or I’d simply find another way.

I wander around in search of a way for a clean trespass, peaking in carefully through the windows downstairs.

Most of the inside is empty and bathed in dim lights except the kitchen, where Delilah is humming an unfamiliar tune while mixing something in a glass bowl.