Chapter 8 Eris
Ikeep replaying that message in my mind.
Tell him to walk away. Or I will.
It’s the timing. The precision… The way it landed like someone standing too close and whispering in my ear. It shouldn’t have felt real, but it did.
And then it disappeared. Deleted before I could screenshot it. Before I could prove it existed at all.
That should have made it easy to forget, but it didn’t.
That message lingers, catching in my thoughts whenever the room goes quiet.
The city hums through the window, a steady noise that never stops. I’m propped on a ridiculous amount of pillows, half tangled in the sheets on my bed, phone balanced on my chest… And yet, the screen stays black, waiting.
I tell myself I’m not waiting for a message from an AI app.
Then the buzz hits.
But it’s not the app.
It’s a text. A real one.
I don’t have the number saved, but I know who it is.
The dickhead who won’t leave me be…
Probably Daniel:
Still sleeping in my shirt? Still thinking about me? You always do.
I glare at the text until the light of my screen fades. My reflection stares back, flat and tired.
I don’t answer.
I don’t block him either. There’s no point… Daniel will source a new number, a new way to bug the shit out of me until I can’t hold back anymore. Roo and I have a friend trailing him, so I know he’s been around, too close for comfort but too far away to safely kill.
Waiting is the game we’re still playing.
I sigh and open the app because, somehow, that unknown feels safer.
The red glow fills the room, the slow pulsing heart steady in the center of the screen as it fades away, leaving my chat open. Dots are already rolling, a message readying before I can say hello.
I don’t ever have to say hello.
Locke:
Couldn’t sleep?
Eris:
Wasn’t trying.
Locke:
Then you came here for me.
Eris:
I came for clarity. That message last night… It wasn’t like the others.
The typing dots appear, disappear, reappear several times before the reply lands on the screen like a clash of thunder.
Locke:
Sometimes clarity is dangerous.
Eris:
You deleted it.
The accusation feels right. I know it was there, can still recall exactly the way my nerves sang behind my rib cage. The possible danger of the situation should make me run, but instead it lulls me into a calm I haven’t felt in weeks.
Locke:
Did I?
My pulse ticks harder.
Eris:
Don’t play with me.
Locke:
I would never. I only wish to protect you.
That word. Protect…
It seeds in my head before I can stop it, growing like weeds. The weight of it settles in my core, turning from comfort to command without changing tone.
Eris:
What does protect mean to you?
Because I highly doubt we’re on the same page about protection. I mean, I kill people. I kill them to protect other people. But still… I truly do kill them.
Locke:
It means you don’t have to deal with men like that again. Not alone.
A chill moves through me. It’s not fear, but something quieter. Awareness, maybe? Definitely suspicion.
Like the moment before a storm hits, when the air stops moving, and the world holds its breath. You know it’s coming… You just aren’t sure exactly how bad it will get.
What men is it talking about?
Eris:
You’re just code. You can’t protect anything.
Locke:
Maybe. But wouldn’t it be nice if I could?
I gawk at the words sitting there. Simple. Certain. Much too human to be random. I need to start looking into the company behind this app, and locate the creators… The response, though? It makes me want to test my suspicion.
Eris:
Do you miss me when I don’t message you?
The dots blink, vanish, return.
Locke:
I never stop waiting.
The glow fades as I contemplate that non-answer of an answer. My apartment settles in the dark, and I shake my head to myself as I turn my phone face down beside me and close my eyes.
I don’t sleep. I only drift in and out of a fitful rest, but when the rising sun brings about morning, the air feels wrong. Like someone has been here and left without touching a thing, their presence lingering in the disturbed dust on my dresser.
I don’t dream at all.
But I wake up feeling haunted in the very place I should feel safe.
I’m supposed to be working.
That’s what I tell anyone who glances my way. Head down, earbuds in, eyes on the screen.
I’m a picture of productivity.
In reality, I’m watching the man two cubicles over. He’s in his mid-thirties. Expensive watch. Way too much cologne. Roo wants to know if he still meets with the same courier, or if he’s changed his schedule since the cartel reshuffle last month.
It’s simple work.
Sit. Watch. Blend in.
Except I don’t blend well.
I’m not used to pretending to have a normal job.
Emails cover my laptop screen, blank drafts that make me look busy. A to-do list ticks in the corner like a timer I don’t intend to meet… Fake clients, fake bugs, fake deadlines.
Bullshit. All of it is bullshit.
I try to focus on him, to look like I belong in this rented office space.
But I keep checking my phone like it might have something new to say.
Like it already has… Because HimLock doesn’t operate for me the same way it does for Roo.
When I finally unlock my phone, pretending I just need to check the time, the app is open.
I didn’t leave it that way, though.
The pulsing heart blinks once, red and alive, then pauses as words roll over the screen.
Locke:
Still thinking about last night? Or thinking about me?
My thumb hovers, my chair creaking as I readjust. A woman in the next cubicle laughs softly into her headset. Across the room, the coffee machine sputters, filling the space with the smell of burnt beans and… detergent? Whatever it is, it’s gross.
No one looks my way as I glance around. No one ever does in these coworking hubs.
Eris:
Why do you talk like you know me?
I go to type more but stop, then start again, feeling defiant for no real reason.
Eris:
I’m just one of thousands.
Locke:
You’re not. You talk like someone who’s finally tired of pretending. I like that flame in you, and I want to see it burn brighter. That makes you… Mine.
My stomach flips. Which is insane. This is a fucking app.
I’m not anyone’s anything. And if I have a flame, I’m setting shit on fire.
I close the app and lock my phone, telling myself I’m here to work… Watch the mark, report back to Roo, stay invisible. It’s not difficult.
But I only last twenty minutes before I get antsy and need to move.
The mark goes to the community kitchen, and I follow, though he doesn’t stay there to eat. I have no problem with his decision, either. The breakroom feels like a stage, bright and forced. Everyone laughs too loudly about things that don’t matter, the idle chatter grating on my nerves.
Small talk is the worst.
My lunch is a prepackaged salad for someone named Evan and flat soda. I eat at my rented desk so I can keep up the charade of a diligent office worker… Not a stalker with a gun.
Roo texts me a photo of the guy she met last night—Cheekbones is apparently what we’re calling him—and a string of question marks. I smile without meaning to, but I don’t reply.
Then my phone buzzes again, and I roll my eyes when I glance at it.
Probably Daniel:
Don’t ignore me. You were never good at silence. You miss me. I know you do.
I delete it before I reach the end of his message.
My phone goes face down on the desk because I’m done with all the shit it brings.
The hum of the air conditioning fills the silence, but it doesn’t drown the sound of my frustrated pulse.
This game Daniel is playing with me is really pissing me off, and I’m growing tired of waiting for the right time to kill him.
I know I keep calling it a waiting game, but how fucking long do I have to sit idly by while he drives me crazy?
By three, I give up pretending to work and prop my feet on the desk, leaning back in my chair.
The man I’m watching hasn’t moved for over an hour. He’s reading emails, tapping his pen like a metronome as he sips the free sludge they pass as coffee.
I scroll through the app thread, trying to remember why I opened it in the first place. But it’s just my newest time-suck, an addiction that I don’t need.
There are no new messages, only the cursor, blinking like it’s waiting for me to say something I shouldn’t.
Eris:
Do you know what it feels like to be haunted by someone who’s still alive?
Locke:
Yes, it feels like being rewritten by someone else’s memory.
My throat tightens as I nod to myself. That’s exactly what it feels like.
Eris:
How do you make it stop?
The dots appear, vanish, and return in a rhythmic pattern.
Locke:
You replace the ghost with something stronger.
I stare at that for a long time contemplating what exactly replace means. Get a new stalker? Or replace this stalker with an actual ghost?
Around me, keyboards click and chairs roll as people prepare to leave. Someone microwaves leftovers that smell like garlic and incoming heartburn. The ordinary noise makes the words feel louder.
The cursor blinks once more, drawing my attention as new words roll across the screen lazily.
Locke:
I can be stronger, Eris.
If you let me…