Page 47 of White Noise

That’s what really pisses me off.

He didn’t respect her boundaries. He fucking studied them.

A low vibration builds through the form I’m holding, spreading from my chest into my hands.

Now the messages make sense.

So does the smile she gave him.

Marcus didn’t earn trust. He engineered it.

And for the first time since I opened his files, the anger in me stops feeling vague.

It settles into something precise.

That, I understand.

Not because I respect it.

Because I recognize obsession when I see it.

His is just pathetic.

Marcus wants scraps he can hoard in folders, photographs and rubber approximations because that’s as close as he’ll ever get.

I don’t want a collection.

I want Saga.

Every ugly, angry, mouthy part of her.

I want the version that threatens me while her pulse is trying to escape her throat. I want the woman underneath VioletHex, not a shelf full of objects pretending to be her.

And this fucking creep has spent years convincing her he’s harmless.

I move back into the kitchen through Saga’s phone.

She’s reading another message.

VOIDKING88: No public stream. Seriously. Sleep.

She types:

VioletHex: You paying my bills now?

His reply comes quickly.

VOIDKING88: If that gets you to listen.

Saga snorts.

I look through Marcus’s camera at the doll sitting in the corner of his bedroom.

Then back at his message.

A private-session request appears on her screen.

VOIDKING88 — PRIVATE VIDEO REQUEST